The Other Anthony
by eekfrenzy
Summary: Sweeney Todd had already gone through his Epiphany, and his 'special' barber chair was nearly ready. Then somebody else who had a plan for Judge Turpin showed up in his shop...and everything changed. Will Sweeney ever become a Demon Barber?
1. Is He in Heaven, Is He in Hell?

_**Author's Note:**_ Many thanks to my collaborator DorisTheYounger for polishing and refining this story. Check out her own writing! And, as usual, Sweeney Todd belongs to Sondheim and Johnny Depp, yada, yada.

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><p><em><strong>Is He In Heaven, Is He in Hell?<strong>_

It was the barber-shop of a man who no longer existed—him. Pale London sunlight trickled through smeared window panes onto the shop's sparse furnishings, faded floor, and meager tools of the barber's trade. The smell of soap and cheap hair tonics warred with the sharp tang of sawdust and a secret whiff of blood.

His 'special' barber chair was almost ready. It waited like a predator in the middle of the nearly-empty room. He'd cut a man-sized disposal chute in the floor and concealed it behind the chair. Once he made a few more adjustments, a mere tip would open the chute and dump the body of his victim into the bakehouse cellar.

Sweeney Todd was quite proud of his mechanical masterpiece—a machine that would dispose of human carcasses after he'd 'delivered' them from the cruelties of the world. Only a day or two more and Mrs. Lovett would be getting plenty of meat for her pies.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he paused to examine his reflection. There was no longer any kindness or warmth left in that face. He was cold as stone, cold as a corpse, with a heart armored against anything that life could throw at him. Not that there was anything left to attack—his past was gone, his family had been destroyed, and his wife Lucy was dead by her own hand. All that remained was his hatred of the evil Judge Turpin, who held Sweeney's daughter in his lecherous hands and would compel her to become his wife.

Sweeney's own hands tightened in fury on his faithful silver razor. If only Anthony Hope had waited one more minute to barge in on his just execution of the Judge! Anthony was a rare sort of man, an innocent. He had saved Sweeney's life not so many months ago when he'd been drifting lost and alone on the open sea, dying of thirst and exposure. Wondering whether he should wait for death or fling himself into the water's embrace. Despairing of reaching London, despairing of ever finding Lucy and Johanna.

He'd felt such a sense of salvation when he first saw Anthony Hope's ship, when he watched the sailor climbing down to grab him from the doomed raft and heard his kind words, "Let me help you."

Anthony Hope was naive and foolish, but he was a man to whom Sweeney owed much. So he would let Anthony live—at least until Sweeney's daughter Johanna was safe. After that, well, he would see what happened. Perhaps after all it would be best if Anthony stole Johanna away and fled the dangers of London... and Sweeney Todd.

He cast his eyes down at the scrap of paper spread open on the bureau and once again, was distracted from his thoughts of revenge. Anthony had found it wrapped around the key that Johanna tossed to him such a short time ago. Some sort of message was written on the paper—a message that had been worrying and wracking Sweeney's brain and delaying the construction of his wondrous chair.

The message was written in code—a code that he hadn't been able to break. For hours he'd worked to analyze the code. He'd tried the simple ciphers that had been used by his fellow-convicts, but with no success. Finally he'd given up in frustration. The five-petalled flower at the foot of the letter niggled at him. He'd seen that flower symbol before, but where? Not in the past fifteen years since he'd been transported—it was something from his earlier days in London. Perhaps something from the days of his long-past apprenticeship?

While he was trying to remember, the bell at the door rang. Sweeney folded the note and placed it into his pocket, then spun around with an unfamiliar smile on his frozen face. "Come in."

His latest customer seemed to be a fading but prosperous tradesman. His neat blond-red hair was beginning to gray and he was slightly shorter than Sweeney. There was a slight smile on his worn but impish face and his sleepy blue-green eyes sparkled with humor. "I see that your establishment is up and running in only a week—you must be very determined to succeed, Mr. Todd." His rich baritone voice had a bit of an Irish lilt.

How did the man know his name? Oh yes, he must have seen him at the contest with that fraud Pirelli. Sweeney Todd's fame was spreading—good, good.

"What can I do for you, sir? A shave, of course. Trim the hair, perhaps? Some cologne?" Sweeney gestured to his chair, a bit sorry that he could not yet give it the ultimate test. Maybe the next man...

"A shave will be sufficient, thank you. My name is Tony Dew, sir." Dew gazed around the shop and checked his reflection in the mirror, then sat down in the barber's chair, cane in his hand. Sweeney whipped out the cloth and smoothly spread it over Dew's chest and neck, then began to strop his razor.

"Tell me, Mr. Todd, has anyone ever mentioned to you an earlier tenant of this shop... a man named Benjamin Barker?"

When he heard the man speak his original name, Sweeney Todd's blood turned to ice. Never mind the tests, he'd force open the chute and push down Dew's body with his own hands.

Sweeney carefully finished stropping his razor and waved it, his only friend, at the man in the chair. "I've heard no talk about the man. Why do you ask?"

Dew's eyes grew thoughtful and he seemed to come to a decision. "Because his daughter and mine are friends. Please, stop waving that razor around. I've been threatened by much larger blades than that, I can assure you." A naked blade suddenly poked out from underneath the barber's cloth and swept Sweeney's arm to one side.

Sweeney's muscles tensed as he realized that Dew had a swordcane. But the thought that was really filling his mind was, 'Johanna has a friend?'

"Let us not mince words, sir," said the sword-wielding tradesman. "I've been asking around about you and I'm satisfied that I know your identity. Mr. Barker, our daughters are in deadly danger at Judge Turpin's house. Have you received any word from Johanna?"

His mind awhirl, Sweeney lowered his razor but did not close it. How did this man know who he was? What did he intend to do about it? Then the full meaning of Dew's words struck home. Johanna was in danger? "She's being held captive by Judge Turpin. He intends to force her to marry him. What worse peril could she be in?"

"Does he now? That's good to know. It means that he will not be harming her soon or overtly. That gives us some time." As Dew threw the barber's cloth onto the floor, his face revealed a worry that Sweeney—to his shock—could understand. "But that says nothing about my daughter Marguerite, and I've received no word from her in weeks."

"What is your daughter doing in Turpin's house?" Sweeney was sure that he could kill him—but to kill the father of a girl who knew his daughter... No. Not yet. Not until he found out what was going on.

"The person that I really want to investigate is Turpin. Marguerite decided to help me out and contrived to be hired as a serving maid in Turpin's household," Dew replied with a touch of exasperation. The Irish lilt had disappeared from his voice. "That girl needs to learn to think before she jumps into danger like that—ahh, who am I fooling? I know exactly who she gets it from." He lowered his blade a little and jerked his head at Sweeney's razor. "Would you do me the favor of putting that away while we discuss these matters? If you are inclined to dispose of me, I'm afraid I would be missed. You would not want the consequences of that, I'm sure. Your identity will not leave these rooms, I can promise you."

I could still take him, Sweeney told himself. Dew must have been formidable in his youth, but he was getting old. For Johanna, though, he could hold his hand. Sweeney closed the razor and slipped it into his belt holster, then waved to display his empty palm. Dew resheathed the sword into his cane, but did not remove it from his lap.

"You should know that Judge Turpin is playing a very dangerous game. He does not play it very well. However, if he should disappear right now, our daughters would be caught in even more danger."

Dew gave Sweeney a hard stare, his eyes no longer sleepy but fierce and intense. "After what happened to you and your family, Mr. Barker, I can well understand your desire for vengeance. However, your vengeance must wait."

"What?" Nobody was going to tell him that—not ever again.

"Simply put, killing Turpin now would in all likelihood get the girls killed as well. We must get our daughters out of Turpin's house first. Then there will be time for other matters."

Sweeney's fingers itched for his razors. He wouldn't miss another change to avenge himself—the next opportunity he had, he'd take it. No matter what.

Swordcane in his hands, Tony Dew rose to his feet. "Mr. Barker... no, Mr. Todd, if you kill Turpin, you will kill your daughter. Do you want that? If you kill me, you remove the one person who can help her. Or you."

He had to play along. Pirelli had thought that he'd gotten the better of him, and look where Pirelli ended up. Sweeney Todd's lips quirked in a bitter smile. If Dew tried to deceive him, he would end up in the bakehouse the same as Pirelli. "It's too late to help me, but if you can help Johanna... What do you wish to know?"

Dew cocked an eyebrow. "Have you received any messages from Johanna? And what part does the sailor play?"

Sweeney shook his head a fraction. "Anthony? For a week now he has been trying to get word of her, catch any sight of her, with no success." Keep calm and controlled. Don't think past that moment that Anthony slipped... no, don't think of that. If you do, all will be lost. "Johanna tossed him a key to Turpin's house more than a week ago, but he never had a chance to use it."

"I take it the boy has more will than guile?" There was a wry smile on Dew's face. "Well, he can learn. Was there no message, then?"

Sweeney considered for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the note. "None that I could decipher."

Dew snatched at the note so quickly that Sweeney reflexively grabbed for his razor. "This is a message for me, and it's from Meg. She's still alive, or she was when this note was written. Ah, that's an old code... of course, she doesn't know the new ones. I wonder why she sent it along with the key—the boy isn't part of the League, after all."

That elusive scrap of memory tweaked at Sweeney again... League of... why couldn't he remember?

"Ah, that's interesting—Turpin has been keeping records. That will make things much easier, if we can get our hands on them. He's involved with the worst criminals in London, right up to his greasy neck. One way or the other that neck will be stretched before this is ended, that I vow." Dew looked up from the note. "The servant girls aren't permitted to leave the house unless they're accompanied by that odious Beadle or his men. That will make this a bit more difficult."

Sweeney shook his head. "Anthony told me that Turpin intends to move Johanna to some place where Anthony will never find her."

"Is that so? Turpin must be making the arrangements now, so whatever he's planning, it will be soon. Oh, he tries to be cunning... but jackals are snapping at his heels and the hounds have found his scent. He will not escape the pit that he's opened up for himself."

Dew's mouth hardened into a thin line as he folded up the note. "Mr. Todd, I understand how difficult this is for you. But we will get our daughters out of that place, and Turpin will cause no more trouble for anybody. This I promise."

"Who is 'we', sir?" Sweeney could not hold in the question any more. "Our...alliance... is not balanced. There is much that you are not telling me."

Dew gazed levelly at him. "You want an exchange of secrets to seal our bargain? Very well, then. My name is Anthony Dewhurst, and I am a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel." The Irish lilt was replaced by an Oxford accent. "I must be on my way now. I have some arrangements to make, but I will be back, Mr. Todd. In the meantime, continue your business and act normal. Beadle Bamford and Judge Turpin must not suspect you."

Dew gave him another hard look and continued, "Turpin is a weak link that we can use. But remember, you're now involved in a larger scheme. If you break or falter, I cannot ensure your daughter's protection. Keep that in mind."

He touched his finger to his forehead as if tipping a hat and departed, closing the door behind him.

The Scarlet Pimpernel? Sweeney had heard stories about him when he was just a young lather boy. The broadsheets in those days were full of the exploits of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who'd rescued hundreds, if not thousands, of aristocrats during the French Revolution. All the grand ladies wore his five-petalled flower on their lapels. The rhyme that was on everybody's lips came back to him:

_They seek him here, they seek him there, the Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven, is he in hell, that damned, elusive Pimpernel._

As Sweeney was remembering this, a thought came to him. The Pimpernel had saved so many aristocrats, but nobody came to save the barber Benjamin Barker. Where was the justice in that?

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><p>To be continued...<p> 


	2. Upstairs, Downstairs

_**Author's Note:**_

This story involves the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The story is set in the 1830s, 40+ years after the French Revolution. Anthony Dewhurst (who actually had a book in Orczy's series) is older now, but much more experienced.

In the 15 years that Sweeney was away in Australia, London's population practically doubled, the Industrial Revolution is well underway, and the London Metropolitan Police Force has been formed. Gaslight is now becoming more common, and the first railway is being built in London.

Thanks for all the reviews – reviews are my only reward for this!

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><p><em><strong>Upstairs, Downstairs<strong>_

"Miss? Your breakfast is ready." A redheaded girl in a crisp maidservant's outfit was standing with a tray in her arms at Johanna Turpin's bedroom door.

"Come in," a quiet voice answered.

Turpin's newest maid let herself into Johanna's room and announced to the world in a voice with an Irish lilt, "Your tea is nice and hot, and the toast is fresh. How are ye doin' this mornin', Miss?" She placed the tray on the ormolu bedside table, spread out a napkin beside it, and cast an appraising look at the young girl she was serving.

Johanna was bearing up well, considering that the poor girl was imprisoned in her own house. Considering what she'd recently learned about her father and the man who'd made himself her guardian. Usually her eyes were sad and distant—but now they were determined and concentrated.

"I've been better." Johanna glanced at the door and whispered, "Are we free to speak?"

"Yes, fresh from this morning's baking," Meg said loudly, then pushed the door shut with her foot. Dropping the lilt that falsely declared her Irish origins, she said with a grin, "For a little while. The Judge has hidden himself in his study again. As for me, I'm afraid I'm not allowed in the pantry today. There was a little mix-up yesterday with the jam."

Then she quickly became serious. "Have you seen Anthony out there?"

"No, I haven't. The windows are all shuttered so I cannot even look outside." Johanna reached out to pour herself a cup of tea. There was only one cup, or she would have poured another for Meg.

Meg sat down on the edge of Johanna's bed to keep her company. "The doors are usually locked and all of our deliveries are watched. We servants have been ordered to keep you to your rooms and we're not allowed to leave the house. However, I peeked out the window when I was washing the dishes and I saw your Anthony standing in the street. He may not be able to approach you, but he hasn't given up."

"So neither of us can leave. Has _He_ said anything about where he means to send me?" Johanna's hands hardly shook as she replaced the cup on its saucer.

"No, but we can make some guesses. The Judge isn't Catholic, so it won't be a convent. And at least England has no oubliettes! It will probably be some strict boarding school. Our best chance for escape will be when they take you out of the house to go there. Be ready."

"But what about your message, Meg? Did you see any of your friends out there?"

Meg sighed. "No, it was a forlorn hope at best. It wasn't likely that they'd notice Anthony and get my note from him, but I had to try."

Johanna laid her hand on Meg's arm in sympathy. "We both have to keep trying. I'm so glad you're here—before you came I felt so alone and isolated."

"Just the way the Judge wanted it, I'm sure. It is a common approach for..."

"For controlling prisoners without chains? Don't look so surprised—I knew in my heart what _He_ was doing to me long before you told me the truth. I just didn't know why." Johanna shuddered. "Can you tell me about my family again? It feels like a fairy tale."

"It doesn't sound like a fairy tale to me. It's so sad," Meg protested.

Johanna shook her head. "My father was falsely imprisoned and sent to Australia—but he wasn't Judge Turpin! You don't know what it means to me, to know that _He_ isn't my father. A father would never do the things that _He_ wants to do to me."

And that, Meg knew, was all that Johanna would say about her worst nightmare—her fear that Judge Turpin would force her to marry him. It was worse than the French Revolution—at least there they only chopped your head off!

"Well, your father was a barber named Benjamin Barker. He had a beautiful wife named Lucy Barker and they had a little daughter that they doted on. Your family didn't have much money, but your father was a fine barber and his fortune was apparently on the rise."

"And then Judge Turpin had my father transported on false charges, my mother died soon after, and the Judge took me in as his ward. But why? It can't have been guilt—he never feels guilty about the men he condemns." The last of Johanna's smile faded. "You're right. It's not a fairy tale after all—there can't be a happy ending. I'll never find out what happened to my father. It's been too long and he's too far away."

"Your father may never be able to come back to you, but I'm sure that he thinks of you every day. And I'm sure that he wants you to be free and happy, because every true father wants that," Meg said. "And we can make that happen for him."

"It won't be just us doing it, though—your own father will help us too, won't he?" Johanna asked a bit anxiously.

"Of course he will!" Meg said in a tone of total conviction. "My father has fought all his life for the cause of justice and honor. He and his friends—they're practically my uncles, really—have rescued hundreds of people from situations far worse than this!"

"Hundreds?" Johanna's voice was just a trifle skeptical.

Meg grinned. "It's practically the family business! Of course Father will be furious when he finally comes to get me—but I wanted to be a part of it too! I'm terrible at embroidery and I don't like to paint, but I'm decent at swordplay and I'm very, very good at noticing things. So when I just happened to overhear Father asking my brother Daniel to worm his way into this household, I decided that it was time for me to take part. Daniel couldn't have done it, anyway—but I could."

Meg gave her heavy red curls a shake. "Father is even now planning to get us out—I know he is. But he isn't here, and we are, so we must contrive for ourselves. I'll try to come up with a plan, but in the meantime delay the transfer as long as possible and confuse the Judge if you can. And remember, if you see anything with that flower on it, let me know immediately." At the sound of footsteps outside, Meg turned herself back into an Irish serving girl. "Are you finished with your meal, Miss?"

Johanna's eyes hooded. "Yes, you can go now." The noise from the hallway moved away and her fingers brushed Meg's arm in a silent farewell.

"We will get you out, and you will marry Anthony, if that is what you decide," Meg promised her. She gathered the tray and turned to leave. "Be brave and true."

"I will—but I couldn't do it without you."

When Meg closed the door she locked it behind her, as she'd been ordered. She would have to hand the key back to Turpin's housekeeper, a forbidding woman who kept an eagle eye on everything in the household. Not that she'd need a key to open Johanna's door. Meg was certain that her lockpicking skills would be up to the task.

Meg was carrying the tray downstairs with care—she couldn't afford to be let go over a broken teacup—and returning to the kitchen when the door to the Judge's study opened. Turpin, his face unusually stern and grim, escorted a stranger out of the study into the hall.

Now who could that be? Meg ducked into the shadows of the kitchen doorway to listen.

Turpin was tapping one hand with the letter that he held in the other. "So it's the usual arrangement, Doyle?"

"I deliver the letters—I don't poke my nose into them." The stranger had the bearing of a soldier. He was completely bald, with black eyebrows and dark blue eyes, and Meg thought she recognized the hint of a County Clare accent.

Doyle nodded at the letter in Turpin's hand. "Don't forget—destroy that after you read it." His dark eyes hardened into a predatory glare when he saw Meg's form in the shadows.

Turpin noticed what the man was staring at and demanded, "Girl! What are you doing there?"

Meg didn't have to fake the trembling of her voice. "Miss Johanna's breakfast, sir. Is there anything you need, sir?" She allowed her Irish lilt to come to the fore. Half of her childhood had been spent in Ireland—it wasn't likely the stranger would twig she was a fake.

"Leave us," Turpin ordered harshly. Meg had no choice—she darted into the kitchen and put Johanna's dishes away as fast as she could. Then she peered out, hoping to catch another glimpse of the strange man. It looked like he was wearing an old army jacket—but she hadn't seen any regimental flashes.

The stranger had gone, but Turpin was still there.

"That was Johanna's tray, was it not?" Turpin asked. At Meg's cautious nod, he stated, "From now on, serve her only half of what she's been getting—for all meals. That should help her to make up her mind." He turned and entered his study.

A genteel torturer was Judge Turpin. Meg shook her head. She'd have to find a way to sneak some of her own food to Johanna. To thwart Turpin, Johanna would gladly live off brown bread and oatmeal.

But what interested Meg most was the letter that Turpin had just received. What was in it? No matter what Doyle had told him, she'd seen enough in the past few weeks to be sure that Turpin was keeping his correspondence—burned letters did leave a residue in the fireplace. He must be hiding them somewhere in his locked study.

As Meg went back to washing dishes, she was consumed with ideas for breaking into the study and with curiosity about the incriminating evidence she'd find there. Wouldn't her father would be thrilled if she found something to help bring down Knight's Ghosts!


	3. Little Pie Shop of Horrors

**_Author's Note_**

I've done another Sweeney Todd story – "Dead Man's Razor". It's a supernatural explanation of how Benjamin Barker became Sweeney Todd. It's lost in the Sweeney Todd crossover ghetto, but you can find it from my profile page.

Next chapter - Sweeney goes into action!

Thanks for the reviews – they are my only reward.

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><p><em><strong>Little Pie Shop of Horrors<strong>_

The little bell at the pie shop door clanged tinnily. Mrs. Lovett looked up from counting her money to see Anthony Hope standing at the counter. Mr. Todd's sailor boy looked very tired and wan, but he still tried to smile bravely. "A pie and a drink, if you please, Mrs. Lovett."

He was so polite for a sailor—and pretty too. Those earnest eyes and ruddy cheeks! He was so young, Mrs. Lovett mused. The world would grind him down soon enough. She fixed a smile on her face that she fondly considered endearing, pulled a mug of ale for him, and slapped one of the warmer pies onto a plate. "Here you go, dear—a fresh pie, piping hot!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Lovett." Anthony put down his coin on the counter before he picked up the pie—now that was the kind of customer she liked to see—and took a long draught of ale. Anthony never seemed to be bothered a bit by the taste of her pies. Of course even she had heard about the terrible provisions that sailors were given at sea.

"Any word from your Johanna?" Mrs. Lovett asked. The boy was a fool to go over the moon about a girl he'd never even seen up close, but after a bit of thought, she was inclined to favor Anthony's suit. With a little luck, he'd steal Johanna from Turpin and fly away with her. Then maybe Mr. Todd would understand that his daughter was gone and he needn't think about her so much. And best of all, it would all be Anthony Hope's fault.

"Not a word. That tyrant of a Judge has her locked up tight. I haunt the streets by her house trying to give her a sign that I'm still there, but the window shutters are always closed." Anthony drained his mug and set it back on the counter. "Is Mr. Todd still angry with me? It's been two weeks now since I...ummm... interrupted his work."

Mr. Todd was mad as a hatter, Mrs. Lovett thought. Mad enough to slit the throat of every customer who entered his shop. Mad enough to chop men up into pie-meat. What she wanted to know was, when was he going to get back to it? She'd stretched Pirelli as far as she could, but he was long gone now.

All through the week, customers had sauntered into Mr. Todd's barber-shop and sauntered back out again. He'd spent a whole week getting the chair and the chute ready—and now there was something else he wanted to do before he started up their plan. How did Mr. Todd think she could make a living without meat coming in? The selfishness of that man!

She smiled sweetly as she faced Anthony. "He was disappointed with you, but by now I'm sure he's come to terms. It's still a sore spot with him, so I wouldn't mention it too much if I were you."

Anthony shook his head as if he wanted to shake himself senseless—or sensible, which Mrs. Lovett thought he could probably use. "If only I'd thought to look in before I barged inside! But I was so excited, and Mr. Todd was always willing to listen to me on the Bountiful. If only I'd realized he had the Judge in his barber chair!"

"Why don't you go up and talk to him, son?" she suggested. If he made Mr. Todd angry enough, she might wind up with some meat after all. But then again, there was getting rid of Johanna to think of. So she added, "If I were you, I'd knock first."

Anthony gave her a grateful grin and started to get up, then sat down again. "I'll wait. It looks like he's got a customer."

Mrs. Lovett followed Anthony's gaze through the window and sucked in her breath. It was that spectacle-maker Dew again. He must not have anybody else to take care of him, the way he kept coming by for a shave. Unless he was one of those lonely sods who fancied that the barber was his friend. He should have figured out by now that Sweeney Todd was not the sociable type. Benjamin Barker hadn't been very sociable to begin with, but the past fifteen years hadn't been kind to him and he'd taken it to heart.

Surprisingly, Dew didn't climb the stairs to Todd's tonsorial parlor, but came right into the pie shop. The man must make a nice living as a spectacle-maker, Mrs. Lovett thought. Even at his age he looked hale and strong —he must have always eaten well. He was always dressed well, too. That blue embroidered waistcoat was practically new. And his red jacket looked too pricey for a common shopkeeper, now that she thought about it. Smiling genially at both of them, he said to her, "An ale and a pie for me, if you please."

Mrs. Lovett ducked her head automatically at the note of authority in his voice. "Right away, sir. Have a seat." After pulling another mug of ale, she blew the dust off a plate and slid a pie onto it. She'd have to bake another batch soon, but what would she put in them?

Dew had decided to sit at the table next to Anthony. When she delivered his pie and his ale to him, she noticed that he seemed to be examining her shop and everything in it.

"My thanks," Dew said. He might sound Irish—but he didn't look like any Irishman she'd ever met. "You've had a shop in this location a long time, haven't you, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Since I married my poor Albert, rest his soul, almost twenty years ago now," Mrs. Lovett tried to hide her uneasiness. Questions! Nobody in this neighborhood liked to answer questions.

Anthony stood up and said with a sigh, "I might as well get it over with." He walked up the stairs to the barber-shop as if he was going to his doom—but Mrs. Lovett certainly hoped he wasn't. If Mr. Todd killed him now, how would she be able to cover it up?

"I take it that Beadle Bamford has been in this area for quite a while too, then?" Dew was absentmindedly picking at his pie but wasn't actually eating it. "I suppose that you have some acquaintance with him?"

"I'm not acquainted with him—but everyone around here knows Beadle Bamford," she answered, more uneasy than ever. "What's it to you?"

Dew quirked an eyebrow. "I'm setting up a shop here, so I've spent a while investigating the area. I've been told there are things I'd need to do to keep on the Beadle's good side. I'm certain you understand."

Investigating? Oh Lord, he's a spy for the Peelers! That explained everything.

He was asking about the Beadle, but it wouldn't stop there. Bobby Peel's men just loved to wreck the lives of simple folk like her who were just trying to get along. How much had he heard about Pirelli? She was glad, now, that Mr. Todd hadn't started on their plan—they'd have to be very careful if the Peelers were watching.

She smiled nervously and only told Dew what everybody knew. "Beadle Bamford isn't a good man to cross. Bad things happen to people who cross the Beadle."

"Do they now? How unfortunate." Dew's other eyebrow raised. "It's been my experience that reigns of terror are never the work of only one man. I expect that the Beadle is acting in the interests of... shall we say, people higher-up? You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I wouldn't know. And if I did know, I couldn't say." Mrs. Lovett's mind whirled with questions and fears. She had no idea what Dew was up to or how much he already knew. He wouldn't dare make trouble for the Judge, would he?

Dew took his first bite of pie and swallowed it with some difficulty. After a moment, he set the pie carefully back on the plate and looked up, aghast. "I've had very few pies the equal of this one. It was absolutely memorable, to say the least. It will linger in my memory for decades."

Rummaging in his purse, he pulled out far too many coins. "That boy's cheeks are as smooth as a lass's, so I daresay Mr. Todd will be finished with him soon. I'll take my leave of you now."

As Dew left her shop, he turned in the doorway and said with only the hint of a mocking smile, "Perhaps a different cut of meat would be beneficial."

Once he was gone, Mrs. Lovett dropped into a chair in a state of shock. Did Dew know who Mr. Todd really was? What would she do if he was taken away from her? Benjamin Barker was an escaped convict. If he was caught, the best he could hope for was transportation. Again.

And what about her own secrets? Life wouldn't be worth living if anyone discovered them.

Mr. Sweeney Todd might be a killer, but he really had no notion of how to deal with people. Nellie Lovett had lived a hard life too, and she'd learned when you had to deal. There was a time and a place to use people like the Beadle, and this was one of them. Come the morrow, she'd let Beadle Bamford know that a troublemaker was... investigating him. He'd do what needed to be done and he'd even owe her a favor.


	4. The Closest Shave You Will Ever Know

**_Author's Note_**

Tony Dew is modeled after George Hearn (my favorite Sweeney Todd actor). I also started throwing in references to Hearn's career and Sweeney Todd actors into this story. As you read, spot the Sweeneys!

Thanks for the reviews – they are my only reward.

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><p><em><strong>The Closest Shave You Will Ever Know<strong>_

Sweeney Todd hung the CLOSED sign on the barbershop door and walked down the stairs. He'd have to keep an eye out for Mrs. Lovett. She'd been a bit persistent about barging into his shop these past few days—and more than a bit persistent about him carrying out their plans. He didn't dare tell her that he couldn't supply her with pie meat—if Dew found out he was cutting throats he wouldn't help rescue Sweeney's daughter.

For nearly two weeks he'd been cutting hair and shaving whiskers, trying to draw out his customers with 'small talk' to find out more about Turpin. It had been so long since he'd employed that particular barber's skill. He'd thought of asking about the Scarlet Pimpernel too, but if his customers would babble to him, they'd babble to others, and that might cause trouble for Dew's investigations. So he remained silent and actually listened to the banal reminiscences of old men in the hope that they'd drop some nugget of information.

Dew had come by a few times, ostensibly for a shave, but actually to share the little information that he'd acquired. It had astounded Sweeney that he'd do that, but unfortunately, Dew didn't know much. Turpin hadn't tipped his hand yet, and neither he nor Anthony had caught sight of Johanna or Dew's daughter. At this point Sweeney's original plan of simply waiting for the Judge to walk into his shop didn't sound so bad.

As for Anthony Hope, Sweeney had to acknowledge that he'd had no notion of what he'd been interrupting—so when Anthony had returned to beg for forgiveness, Sweeney had given it to him. Even though Anthony had temporarily forestalled Sweeney's revenge, he still owed the boy something.

When Sweeney Todd had first returned to London, he'd briefly imagined that he could pick up at least a few pieces of his life. He'd been cured of that folly quickly enough, but he'd soon discovered that London itself was different. Men, women, and children still starved or died of disease, they were robbed or killed or treated like dogs, but the times had changed. For one thing, there were steam engines and gaslights everywhere. The shopowners around him were all talking politics, and that was changing too. The Captains of Industry were the Big Men now—they were almost as powerful as the Lords. And finally, London had a Police Force. That could cause problems for him and Mrs. Lovett, although he didn't think even a 'Peeler' would recognize a corpse once it was baked into a pie. London wasn't his home any longer—the great black pit that he'd thought eternal had altered beyond his reckoning.

It was time to buy himself a gun. If he managed to get Turpin back in his barber chair he'd use his razor, but it was beginning to sound like Dew intended to mount a frontal assault on Turpin's house, and for that his razors were useless. No matter what, though, Sweeney still vowed that Turpin would meet his end with blood gushing from his throat.

Once Sweeney made up his mind, he combed down his hair as best he could and holstered his razors at his belt. It wasn't likely that anyone would connect him with the man he used to be. His hair was outlandish and his face had aged thirty years in fifteen. Most people were unlikely to make an identification that would be inconvenient for him, and probably fatal for them.

As he started across Fleet Street carrying a satchel with his shaving gear inside, he saw Toby coming out of the pie shop. When he saw Sweeney, the lad stopped dead. "Mr. Todd, sir. Mum's in the bakehouse, if you needed to see her."

His hand was clenched around a piece of paper that was wrapped around a coin.

Sweeney shook his head. "Are you going shopping for Mrs. Lovett?" he asked, trying to sound interested. It was better that the boy be kept occupied instead of having time to mull over the disappearance of his old master, Pirelli.

"No, sir. The old gent—Mr. Dew, sir—he asked me to deliver a message and gave me a whole sixpence!" the boy blurted out.

"A whole sixpence? Where does he want you to go?" Now Sweeney actually was interested. Toby must have heard that in his voice—he stopped looking as if Sweeney was going to beat him and gave him a hesitant smile.

"To his son Daniel at Charing Cross." After a moment, Toby asked softly, "Mr. Todd, do you like Mr. Dew? He's not a bad man, is he?" His face was troubled, and he glanced towards the pie shop protectively.

"Mr. Dew is probably better than most," Sweeney said after a long pause. Better than Sweeney himself, no doubt. If Mrs. Lovett hadn't intervened, Toby might have joined his master Pirelli in the bakehouse oven.

Toby sighed with relief. "Is he lonely or something? Mum keeps seeing 'im going to your shop. He's a funny kind of chap—Mum she said he insulted her pies the other day. Can you imagine that?"

Sweeney barely managed to keep a smirk from creeping onto his frozen face. "I'm afraid Mrs. Lovett's pies aren't to everyone's tastes. You should run along now and deliver Dew's message."

"Any bloke that doesn't like her pies is crazy!" Toby said scornfully, then ran away down the street.

Sweeney Todd might indeed be crazy but you couldn't prove it from his taste in pies.

Sweeney thought he remembered a pawnshop in the area, but that had been a long, long time ago. Keeping his eye out for it, he walked towards St. Dunstan's Square. It was late morning and the square was crowded with people. A few—whom he recognized as his customers—recognized him too and greeted him cordially. He gave them a small, self-satisfied smirk. Little did they know what their fate could have been.

Yes, the pawnshop was still there. When he spotted it he practically dove into the doorway. Rubbing elbows with other people felt oppressive. London had been crowded before, but it now seemed that half of England had come to town. At least he didn't have to worry about pickpockets—the look on his face seemed to be scaring off the thieves.

Within the pawnshop, some of the new gas lamps shed their light on a bewildering variety of merchandise that was scattered on polished wooden tables or tucked away in glass cases. A dignified white-haired old man was sitting at one of the counters and examining a piece of jewelry. All at once he jerked up his head and saw his customer. "Bonjour, m'sieur. What may I provide you with?"

Sweeney was perusing the pieces of art in paint and pencil and needlework that practically covered the walls. The pawnshop could provide a bit of beauty for those who could afford it. Embroidered gillyflowers framed in lace caught his eye, and for a moment he remembered Lucy sitting in the window as she worked at her embroidery. But that was the past. Stay in the present, he ordered himself. "I'm looking for a gun."

"It's not our specialty but we have a few," the shopkeeper said. "You know how to use one, I trust?"

Sweeney nodded curtly. "Yes, I've used one before."

The old man pulled a key from his vest pocket and unlocked one of the counters, then removed a tray with two guns for Sweeney's consideration. "The small pistol can be concealed more easily and is suitable for a lady's hand, but it will not cause much damage. The large flintlock is not so easily carried but it is probably more suited to a man such as yourself."

Sweeney carefully examined both of them. Even to his non-expert eye it was obvious that the pawnbroker was right. The smaller one was more easily hidden, but its bullets wouldn't bring a man down. "How much for the larger gun?"

After surveying Sweeney's wild hair and slightly-crazed features, the old man ventured, "I can let you have it for two pounds. A penny more for the bullets and the powder."

That was more money than he had! "I can offer one pound and two shillings, not a penny more." Sweeney bit off a curse. He needed the gun right now, but he had barely one more penny to his name.

"I cannot go lower than two pounds, m'sieur." The shopkeeper regretfully shook his head. "If you are still interested, perhaps you can return when you have the money?"

As Sweeney was trying to figure out what to do he heard a scraping noise and an elderly man on crutches emerged from the back room. His faded blond-red hair was untidy and his whiskers were long and rambling.

"Georges, have you appraised that necklace yet? The pearls have a pretty sheen, but they're fake, aren't they?" His tenor voice had a French accent.

"Albin, we have a customer. The jewelry will wait," Georges replied patiently. He turned back to Sweeney. "I can hold the item for a day or two until you return with the money."

Sweeney thought furiously. He hated bargaining—hated it. It meant that you had to be pleasant. "I am a barber. I recently set up shop above Mrs. Lovett's pie shop on Fleet Street. I notice your friend hasn't had a good shave or haircut in a long time."

Georges' face lit up. "You're the barber who beat Pirelli, that Italian fraud! Albin, see—he's the one who shaved Michael so nicely." Albin stroked his whiskers wistfully as Georges explained to Sweeney, "Albin was quite the dandy in his day, but he hasn't been able to come to your shop. It's the stairs, you see. And alas, my hand isn't as steady as it once was."

Even Sweeney Todd could recognize an opportunity like that. He opened up his satchel and displayed his shaving gear. "In exchange for a discount on my purchase I would be honored to shave your friend and cut his hair. I have my razors and supplies with me right now. All I need is some water."

"Oh Georges, that sounds wonderful!" Albin clapped his hands with joy. "I'll sit down here beside you, and that handsome barber can trim my beard right now." He shuffled over to a chair, and smiled sweetly at Sweeney before turning to Georges. "Well?"

Georges sighed and threw up his hands. "When can I ever deny you? We have a deal, Mr. Todd. I will give you the large gun for one pound together with your best shave and haircut for Albin. I'll throw in the bullets and powder as well." He held his hand out for the customary handshake, and after a moment's hesitation Sweeney accepted it.

Setting up at the counter, Sweeney shook out his cloth with a flourish and wrapped it around Albin's neck. A bit of hot water from the shop teakettle in the shaving mug, a swift stir, and after a moment Sweeney spread warm foamy lather over Albin's sadly-neglected whiskers. No need to strop his razors—he always kept them sharp as could be.

As he removed his razor from its holster, Sweeney noticed uneasily that Georges' gaze was fixed on the silver handle. Well, if need be he could easily scare two old men into silence. He quickly trimmed the untidy ends of Albin's hair, neatly shaved and shaped his beard, gracefully trimmed the sideburns, then polished off his mustache. In another moment he was cleaning the lather from Albin's face while Albin stroked his face in wonder. "Georges, come here and feel! The smooth cheeks of a youth!"

As Sweeney put away his shaving gear, Georges remarked, "Albin, look at those razors. Don't you remember them?"

Sweeney stood stock-still. Too many witnesses about. Maybe the back room of the shop?

Albin nodded. "Oh yes, how could I ever forget? Do you remember the young woman who bought them? Such a lovely voice—and what pretty golden hair!"

Sweeney tried to breathe, tried not to let himself remember. The past was colliding with his present again.

Georges shared a look with Albin, then said to Sweeney, "They once belonged to the Comte D'Fernand—he gave them to Albin's brother when we escaped the Terror. The Mouron Rouge—the Scarlet Pimpernel—rescued le Comte's family from Madame la Guillotine. Albin and I made our way across the channel by other means. We are not aristos, so it was much easier for us. We have been here in St. Dunstan's Square ever since."

Albin shuddered. "My brother Jacques did not make it out. It was a terrible time, m'sieur. No justice, no reason, no honor—nothing but death and treason and chaos and hate. Friend against friend, family against family, and madness over all. The mob ruling all Paris, calling for blood. And then that chien Napoleon—ah, la belle France has fallen so low." He shook his head, tears in his eyes. "I kept the razors for a long time, but when madame saw them… well, it was best they went to someone who could use them well. And she had such a sweet smile."

Georges walked behind the counter and handed the gun and the kit to Sweeney. Then he said softly, "The young woman said that she wanted them for her husband—a barber who was just starting out. She was so pretty, so kind. It was such a shame what happened to her… and to her husband. Of course, you are new here in London, so you would know nothing of this. I never saw or heard of you before that remarkable demonstration with Pirelli." He smiled, and lightly caressed Albin's cheek. "You shall certainly have our business in the future, Mr. Todd. Good luck."

His mind blank with shock, Sweeney Todd found himself standing outside the pawnshop, his shaving gear neatly packed away in the satchel with the gun tucked underneath. Lucy had bought his silver-handled razors from these two old friends in this very shop. They still remembered her. They knew who he was, but they wouldn't say a word. He didn't have to threaten them or silence them.

Everyone deserves to die, Sweeney thought angrily. Then he reconsidered. Perhaps everyone didn't deserve to be killed by him. These Frenchmen were old, they'd die soon enough on their own and carry his secrets to the grave. And even if those two devoted friends did show up in his shop one day, he would still prefer to spare the heads that stored such precious memories.


	5. Friends Help You Move

_**Author's Note**_

Thanks to my reviewers Jill and Alice Kettle. Don't be shy, others can review, too (hint, hint). The action starts in this segment... and don't worry, the next segment will be much longer.

Thanks for the reviews – they are my only reward.

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><p><em><strong>Friends Help You Move<strong>_—

Sweeney walked across the square in a daze. His eyes were open but his mind still reeled in memories of the past. It took a little while before he realized that the screeching from the mouth of the alley was words.

"Murder, murder! Evil, oh evil is here. Murder!" the filthy old beggar woman howled. It was the same beggar woman that haunted the area by the pie shop. He tried to brush past her the way everyone else did, but she clutched his sleeve.

"Murder, sir, murder! There's evil in the alley over there! Oh sir, make it stop, make it stop!" she screeched. "That old man—they're murdering him!"

Sweeney twitched his sleeve away from her. "Enough of your mad talk, woman. Get away from me!"

She stumbled back and shakily tried to clutch at him again. Her bleary eyes were staring at him. "No sir, they're murdering him. He's done nothing—it's evil there, evil! See, he tossed me a coin. He wouldn't do that if he weren't good, would he? Please sir, make it better!"

Sweeney raised his hand threateningly and she flinched back and scuttled away. "Murder, murder... ah no, my beedle-dumpling, no don't worry so, deedle-deedle dumpling..." As her voice disappeared into the distance he heard a scraping noise above him and glanced up to see someone hastily close a shutter. What was the Beadle doing there?

Seeing the Beadle made up Sweeney's mind. It would be easy enough to retreat if the scuffle was a simple matter. He took one step into the alley, and swore softly.

Tony Dew was backed against the alley wall, his red hair all askew. The tip of his unsheathed swordcane was dotted with blood and he was clutching the sheath in his right hand. Two brawny men were blocking Dew's escape. Sweeney recognized them as two of the Beadle's men. One was armed with a cudgel and the other with a large sharp knife. The knife-man—Sweeney thought his name was Len—was easy enough to recognize. He had a full head of dark shiny hair absurdly parted in the middle.

So much for a simple matter. Why did the Beadle want to injure Tony Dew?

Dew's sword darted toward the knife wielder, who dodged the blade and swung his knife at Dew. Then Dew managed to parry the other man's cudgel, which hit the alley wall with a thud. Dew slashed the cudgelman's right arm, striping it with blood. But the wounded man—Frank—struck Dew's sword arm with a mighty punch, and Dew's sword clattered onto the cobblestones. Dew parried Len's knife with the sheath of his swordcane, but the knife bit into Dew's left forearm and the sheath flew from his hand.

Sweeney had to save Dew. Johanna needed Dew's help. Dropping his satchel to the ground, Sweeney grabbed his razor from his belt and flicked it open. Then he grabbed Len's head from behind and slashed his throat in one swift move.

Len spasmed and clutched at his throat. As the knife fell from his hands Sweeney let his body drop. Blood poured from Len's neck to stain his grey shirt red and Len moved no more. It had been so easy—even easier than Pirelli.

"You killed Len! Now I'm going to—" Frank's mustached face distorted with rage. His statement didn't need to be finished. His cudgel did the talking for him.

Thwack! A solid length of hardwood struck Sweeney's arm. The sudden pain nearly made him drop his razor and he staggered back. At Frank's next swing, the cudgel hit Dew's ribs with a solid crack. His sword, now back in his right hand, missed its target.

As Frank pulled back his arm for another blow, Sweeney leapt at him with his razor and sliced into Frank's arm. Seizing the moment, Dew slipped his blade between Frank's ribs and Frank crumbled to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Dew leaned back against the wall and wrapped his neckcloth around his left arm to stop the bleeding. "It's been a while since I've had to fight like this. My thanks for your timely assistance."

Sweeney nodded and absentmindedly cleaned his razor. The spurt of blind fury had drained away, leaving only his usual simmering anger in its place. He glanced at Dew's arm. "I can bandage that for you, but we need to get out of here."

"Wait. Help me with this." Dew bent over Frank's still body and began to drag it toward a cross-alley that dead-ended a little way down. "Come on, we need to make sure they're not found for a while. Quickly now, grab his feet." To his surprise, Sweeney found himself following Dew's orders.

Once they tucked Frank and Len away, and piled a mound of debris over the bodies, Dew glanced ruefully at Sweeney. "Sorry for the mess, but it had to be done." Dew's apology—after the matter-of-fact way he'd handled the grisly task—made Sweeney smirk nervously. Of course Dew didn't know what kind of corpse-handling Sweeney had been involved with. What would his reaction be to that? He knew what Mrs. Lovett's reaction would be to this kind of corpse-handling. It was a waste of perfectly good meat!

As both men sneaked quietly back to Fleet Street, Sweeney thought that he saw the beggar woman peering at them from a dark corner before she scurried away.


	6. Pretty Women

_**Author's Note**_

Thanks for the reviews! As my collaborator DorisTheYounger puts it, this is a story in which Johanna isn't a nitwit.

IamSiriuslyPadfoot – thanks for the review! I love putting in actual (and almost-actual) history into my stories.

Alice – don't worry, the reunion will be coming, and it is emotional, but it's probably not like you'd expect. This is Sweeney Todd, after all...

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><p><em><strong>Pretty Women<strong>_

Johanna was putting on her plainest dress. Its simple lines and thin fabric would allow her to move much more easily than the watered-gauze morning gowns with multiple petticoats that the Judge preferred her to wear. She had already arranged pillows under her bedclothing so that it would look like she was asleep. "Is _He_ still gone, Meg?"

"I can't hear anybody moving out in the hall," Meg answered. The Judge had given all the servants strict orders to watch Johanna and keep her from leaving her room. Everybody knew what Turpin would do to them if they failed him.

Johanna tiptoed over to the door and listened too—but heard nothing. Her face was ashen and her breath quick with suppressed fear, but she was determined to be brave. This was the night that they would search Judge Turpin's study. If they could find the papers that Meg's father needed, they could escape and never come back to this house again.

"Do you think _He _keeps records of the things he's done?"

"The man I saw talking to him today was a Knight's Ghost—I'm sure of it. He gave a letter to the Judge and told him to burn it, but Turpin never does. He must be keeping those letters in case he gets into trouble," Meg said coolly. It was the only explanation that made sense to her. "He might have written down something about your father's trial—I don't know. But even if he didn't, it ought to be possible to get your father's sentence overturned when his villainy is exposed."

"If anyone can find my father in Australia," Johanna said in a small voice. "But what are the odds of that?"

"Courage, Johanna! We'll get through this somehow!" Meg glanced at Johanna. "You'd better put a scarf on your head—that blonde hair of yours will shine like a candle at the slightest light."

Johanna hastily pulled out a dark silk scarf and wrapped it around her light-golden curls, tucking in her hair as neatly as she could. Meg's own fiery hair was already concealed under a gingham scarf. Johanna doused the light and grabbed a candle from her bedside table while Meg carefully opened the door.

The two crept out into the dark hallway. Meg closed the door and twisted its knob so it would seem locked to the casual touch. Then she shifted the picture of a bowl of tulips that was hanging outside Johanna's door and peeked through the tiny peephole into Johanna's room that she'd discovered earlier. Good, it was too dark inside to see anything.

Except for the light at the top of the stairs, all of the gaslights had been turned off on the second floor. They sneaked downstairs and tiptoed into the main hallway. Struck by a sudden suspicion, Meg paused before the portrait of a sourfaced old judge in a periwig and silently pushed it aside to reveal another peephole that looked into the room where the servant girls slept. Johanna tightened her lips. She wasn't the only one being spied on in this household.

When they reached the Judge's study, Meg motioned for Johanna to light the candle. As Johanna cupped the light to shine on the lock, Meg pulled a long thin metal tool from a roll of cloth and inserted it into the tumbler mechanism. She bit her lip in concentration as she carefully maneuvered the lockpick until she heard a click.

Meg opened the door and they both tiptoed inside. Indicating that Johanna should light the lamp on the Judge's desk, Meg closed the door. Both of them stared in surprise at what had been revealed by the light.

The Judge had never allowed the maidservants to enter this room and now Johanna could see why. The pictures on the walls weren't portraits of old judges—they were murals of young girls, and the girls weren't wearing very much. Johanna could feel her face reddening.

Seemingly unaffected, Meg looked around and began to search the room. "It would seem that the Judge is an art collector. Ignore the pictures—we need to find those letters." Johanna copied her actions—first hesitantly, then with more assurance.

The letters that Turpin thought would protect him, Meg reasoned, would be concealed from a casual search, but not be so difficult to lay hands on that Turpin couldn't quickly retrieve them if he needed to. With that in mind, where could they be?

At the bottom of a desk drawer? Too obvious. Stuffed under a floorboard? Too difficult to get to. Tucked into one of the dozens of books in the bookcase? A distinct possibility.

Meg scanned the shelves and finally pulled out a maroon silk folio that seemed—to her critical eye—a bit askew. Untying the ribbon that held it closed, she found a stack of crinkly white papers of a type that was unfamiliar to her.

Whoa—this was a surprise. The papers were clearly part of the Judge's "special collection". It was a series of pen-and-ink drawings that depicted men and women in the throes of activities she'd never imagined. Even the lettering wasn't in an alphabet that she recognized.

As Johanna innocently asked, "What's in there?" Meg slapped the portfolio shut and slipped it back into the bookcase. Johanna wasn't a child, but she didn't need to see this. "Drawings of interest only to a man of the Judge's... appetites."

Johanna's brow creased first in puzzlement, then in resigned anger. "It gets worse and worse, doesn't it? There's a panel on the desk that seems wrong somehow. Take a look at it."

Turpin's massive desk was built from the finest mahogany and inlaid with strips of cherry and golden oak. It was a perfect reflection of his ego. Johanna indicated one of the oak inlays. "It sounds hollow, but I don't see how to open it. There's a loose panel on my vanity table that you can only see if you look carefully. I put my special things in there. I thought that it might be the same for… the…. _Him_."

Now that Johanna had showed it to her, Meg could see what she was talking about. The inlay was designed to deceive the eye and the fingers, but when she tapped it softly, it gave out a hollow sound. Meg slid one finger along the inlay and the wood around it. "The desk in my father's study has a secret compartment too. One day I found out how to open it and discovered the story of his adventures and how he really met Maman. He keeps his diary there, you see…"

Finally she found a piece of wood inlay that depressed slightly. "Ah, there it is."

Fascinated by Meg's actions, Johanna asked, "Did your father ever find out that you knew?"

"Well, yes. You can't fool my father for long! But one day I opened the panel and found a message with the sign of the Pimpernel on it. It was in a secret code. I worked on that code for days before I gave up and asked Father." Meg tried to pull up the panel, but it stuck. "Hmm, there must be another latch somewhere. Where would it be… ah, here it is!" The panel sprung open and revealed a dark hole that ran along the drawer beside it.

"What did the message say?" Johanna asked, unable to resist.

"That curiosity killed the cat, and that if I really wanted to understand the secret of the Pimpernel, I must learn new skills. So I did."

Meg reached in and pulled out a sheaf of papers. These, thankfully, were covered with writing in a scratchy hand, not more pictures.

"Johanna, you've done it! This is exactly what we need. Quickly, put everything back the way it was," Meg ordered. "Our task is complete—we can leave tonight. We'll have to sneak out the front door—I'm sure we'd be spotted at the servant's entrance."

Johanna was shifting papers on the desk back to where she'd found them when she heard the front door opening. Someone was coming!

Meg doused the lamp and shoved the letters into Johanna's hands. "Don't lose these—they're priceless!" She put a finger on Johanna's lips, then pulled her behind the draperies next to the door.

It was Judge Turpin, and his harsh voice was saying, "Johanna goes to Fogg tonight—come with me to fetch her."

"Fogg will know what to do with her, milord," Beadle Bamford answered in his usual obsequious tones. "Once she gets to the asylum, it shouldn't take long for her to change her mind." As their footsteps thudded on the floor of the hallway, Johanna's hand reached for Meg's and tightened as if she was hanging onto a life preserver.

"Fogg has his instructions—and, after all, he has dealt with situations like this before." The footsteps stopped. Meg held her breath. Hallway or stairs? Please, the stairs!

Another footstep, then the creak of the stairstep. She and Johanna had a chance!

This was it—they had to move now! As they slipped outside the study and sidled to the front door, Meg's eyes were peeled for any hint of light.

Just as Meg turned the doorknob, a voice from the stairs yelled, "Stop them, you fool! Johanna, don't you dare leave!"

Meg shoved Johanna outside as Turpin ran downstairs. "Run, Johanna! Get out of here!"

Turning to fend off their attackers, she grabbed at the first thing that came to hand—the Beadle's cane. He'd left it in the stand by the door. Blessing her brothers for letting her take part in their fencing lessons, she prepared to defend herself.

"Out of the way, wench!" Turpin shoved past her, his face wild. Meg swung at him, but her blow missed his head to strike his shoulder. He didn't even stop—he continued to run after Johanna. But Meg couldn't do anything about that, because she was being attacked by the Beadle.

She'd always seen the Beadle as nothing but the Judge's rat-faced toady, but up close he was a very large, very dangerous, very angry man with no compunctions against getting his hands bloody. Meg swung at him with all her strength and hit him over the head with his own cane.

The Beadle was dazed for only a moment—but in that moment Meg turned and ran out of the house. A closed carriage was waiting outside for the Judge. Where was Johanna? Had she gone over the fence into the park? From the south she heard the Judge yelling ugly threats. Meg ran straight toward him, shrieking like an Irish banshee.

Oh no! Johanna had stopped to look for her and had gotten caught by Turpin. He grabbed Johanna by one arm and spun her around roughly. "That will be quite enough, Johanna Turpin. I am your guardian, and you will obey me!"

"No! I will not obey you! You're not my father—my name is Johanna BARKER!" she screamed. His face red with anger, Turpin slapped her and started to drag her toward the carriage.

Finally reaching the two of them, Meg yelled, "Jo, duck!" and hit at the Judge with the cane. A clout to her head from behind made her see stars and start to stumble. As she threw her hands out to break her fall, the cane fell from her fingers.

A large cruel hand grasped Meg's throat and began to squeeze. Meg tried to kick but had no strength left. She pulled at the hand to loosen it, but it was too strong for her.

"No, please don't! Please, don't harm her!" Johanna pleaded. As the blood rushed to her head, Meg could barely hear her voice. "Please, I'll do anything!"

Was she dying, Meg wondered, and then she heard Turpin order, "Don't kill the wench, Beadle. After all, dear Johanna has promised to do anything. We shall hold her to her promise."

After a final dreadful squeeze, the brutal hold was released and Meg fell limply to the ground. She couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but pull precious lungsful of air through her tortured throat. After a long painful moment, her vision cleared and she saw Johanna reaching out for her. But the Beadle jerked her roughly over his shoulder and once again the breath was knocked from her lungs.

Through the roaring in her ears Meg vaguely thought she heard frantic shouts that were coming closer and closer. "Anthony!" Johanna was screaming. "Anthony!"

Johanna's sailor was their last hope. Meg had no voice left to shout back at him—but Johanna did. "Fogg, Fogg, Fogg's Asylum! Anthony—Fogg's Asylum!"

When the black bulk of the Judge's coach rumbled toward them, Meg could do nothing to stop the Beadle from hurling her onto the hard bench in the dark interior. Johanna was tossed beside her a moment later, still screaming, "Anthony—Fogg's Asylum!" Then Turpin climbed inside and Meg heard the sound of a slap. Johanna fell silent with a choked sob.

"Take care of the boy, Beadle." Turpin shoved Meg onto the floor of the coach and kicked her every time she tried to move.

Outside the coach Meg heard yells from Anthony as he tried to wrest open the door, then snarled curses from the Beadle and the sickening sound of a hard object hitting flesh.

The Judge cruelly twisted Johanna's arm behind her back until her head was bowed to her knees. Under her breath, she was muttering "I hate you, I hate you! You'll pay for what you've done to Meg and me. You'll pay!"

At that moment the sounds of struggle stopped, and the Beadle opened the coach door and dropped his cane on the floor. "That problem's dealt with, milord."

The cane was covered with blood.

After that the Beadle climbed into the coachman's seat and cracked the whip. The coach shook a little, then jerked into motion.

They were driving off to Fogg's Asylum.


	7. Folie A Dew

_**Author's Note**_

LadyCrow: Yes, the pearl necklace came from the penny dreadful. One of the many references of this and that you'll find in this story.

Speaking of which, Georges and Albin is a nod to La Cage aux Folles – George Hearn won his first Tony for portraying Albin. And Len is a nod to Len Cariou – the original Broadway Sweeney Todd. There's more on the way...

IamSiriuslyPadfoot, Alice, and Jill – thanks for your continued reading and support.

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><p><em><strong>Folie à Dew<strong>_

Sweeney Todd lurched up the stairs to his tonsorial parlor with a bloody Tony Dew clutching his arm. He fished the door key from his pocket and rammed it into the lock, then shouldered open the door and hauled his wounded companion to the customized barber chair. As Dew fell into it, the swordcane dropped with a clatter from his slack hand.

What a piece of irony, that he was placing into that murder chair one of the few men on Earth that he wanted to live! Well, right now Dew needed doctoring. He'd employed the skills of the old barber-surgeon a time or two in Australia—they would have to serve him now. "I need to get your jacket off. Waistcoat and shirt too. You may have broken ribs."

Dew rubbed his chest and winced. "There's no 'may' about it—though it feels like only one rib. Frankly, the arm troubles me more." He attempted to pull off his jacket, but stopped and closed his eyes in pain. After a moment, he tried and stopped again.

Without making a comment, Sweeney carefully assisted Dew in the removal of his jacket — first one sleeve, then the other. Blood from the gash in Dew's left arm had already soaked through its fine red wool. The embroidered waistcoat looked like too much trouble, so he sliced it down one seam. He was about to do the same with the shirt until Dew sighed, "Yvonne will be so upset with me for ruining this shirt."

Sweeney took another look at the shirt Dew was wearing. It was made of fine white linen and someone had lovingly embroidered a familiar scarlet flower onto the button placket. Sweeney slid off the bloodsoaked shirt as gently as he could. "Your wife? I assumed..."

"She's visiting France with my eldest son Geordie," Dew replied wearily. "I was hoping to resolve the situation before she returns. I'd rather not tell her about the trouble I let our daughter jump into."

The notion of the remarkable Mr. Dew being worried about his wife's fussing almost brought a smile to Sweeney's face. It was a worry familiar to most husbands...

He needed to shut down that line of thought right now. There was no use to it.

After cleaning the blood from the wound on Dew's left arm with cold water, Sweeney examined it more closely. "It's not a deep cut. You'll be all right." Unearthing a half-empty bottle from his bureau, he swabbed the gash with gin. Dew hissed at the pain but did not cry out.

After a moment, Dew cautiously moved his arm up and down. "A trifle sore, but still serviceable. Once you bind it up I'll be fine."

"This is nothing new to you, is it? You've been hurt like this before." Sweeney finished bandaging Dew's arm, then shifted his attention to the other arm. The cudgel had hit Dew hard. When he traced his fingers along the dark blue bruise to check the bone underneath, Dew winced.

"One does not serve in the League without risk." Dew twisted his mouth in an expression more of disgust than pain. "Ah, I'm more out of practice than I'd thought. What a bloody cock-up! I feel like a raw recruit."

Feeling rather like a raw recruit himself, Sweeney ran his fingers over Dew's ribcage. "I think one rib has been cracked, but it's not broken through." Grabbing one of his most-worn barbering sheets, he cut it up into more bandages. After wrapping the older man's ribs, he poured some of the gin into a cracked tumbler. "Drink."

Dew tossed down the gin in one swallow. "Gah! I've tasted very little worse than this!"

"I have." Sweeney walked the older man over to the cot in the corner and ordered tonelessly, "Lie down."

"You're cosseting me like I'm an old man," Dew replied peevishly, but settled himself on the cot. After a moment, he added, "Do not reply to that, I beg of you."

Sweeney smiled. Why should he? There was nothing that needed to be said.

Without a word, he gathered up the bloody shirt with the embroidered flower. If there was one thing that he knew, it was how to get bloodstains out of clothing. Before the blood had a chance to set, you soaked it with cold water and lather. If all else failed, there was always piss—although he doubted that Dew would want him to go that far.

Once the shirt was soaking, Sweeney's mind was pulled back into a web of speculation. The Beadle had been involved in the attack on Dew—that was obvious. But why did the Beadle want to hurt Dew? Did the Beadle know who Dew really was? What did Turpin know?

And more important, what were they going to do next?

As Sweeney's gaze fell upon the treasured daguerreotype of his wife and daughter, he felt a dull pang in his heart. He had no idea what Johanna looked like now. Anthony had said that Johanna's hair was yellow. Was it tawny or golden saffron? Flaxen or blonde?

Only Anthony Hope would be able to recognize her face. What a strange and horrible situation—he would have to trust in the perception of another man.

Before Sweeney could absorb that realization he heard a weak tapping sound at the door. He'd put up the CLOSED sign so this wouldn't be a customer. Could the Beadle have tracked down Dew? Possibly. Sweeney concealed a razor in his hand as he went to find out who it was.

When he pulled open the door Anthony Hope staggered inside. Blood was dripping from the boy's head and one of his cheeks was badly bruised. His face was paler than Dew's. Sweeney dropped the razor and grabbed at Anthony before he could fall, then hauled the other man that he didn't want to die to the recently-vacated barber chair.

Anthony gazed around the room unsteadily and saw Dew sitting up on the cot, his swordcane clenched in his hand. The young sailor's face fell and he muttered apologetically, "I'm sorry, Mr. Todd, I'm sorry. I knocked first—please don't be angry with me!"

Sweeney shook his head as he got a good look at Anthony's battered face. He'd been beaten badly. "It's all right, Anthony. Mr. Dew is helping us save Johanna. Close your eyes. This will sting." He needed to swab the blood off Anthony's face so he could assess the damage.

Before Sweeney could finish, Anthony said weakly, "Mr. Todd? Turpin took Johanna away from the house! I tried to stop them, but the Beadle—oh, sir, what can we do now?"

Sweeney's breath caught. He was about to snarl something, but Dew shouted first.

"What! What did you say?" Dew was standing up now, although he'd splayed one of his palms against the wall to steady himself. "What about the other girl—the redhead? Did Turpin take her too?"

His face anguished, Anthony sat up stiffly in the chair. "Yes, Turpin and the Beadle took both of them away in a closed carriage. I did my best to stop them, but the Beadle hit me over the head with his cane. There was no one around when I woke up except the old beggar woman. She tried to help me, but she got scared and ran away."

The two fathers stared at each other with eyes that mirrored identical shock and rage. Dew's pale face had gone red with fury. In a dark tone that unexpectedly chilled Sweeney Todd, he said, "If any harm comes to Meg, Turpin and the Beadle will pay with their lives."

"Or to Johanna," Sweeney growled. He had such a deep well of rage in his heart—more than enough to equal Dew's.

Dew smiled thinly, his eyes cold. "Of course."

"I think..." Anthony said softly. "I think that I'm a little winded, sir." His eyes closed and his head lolled forward.

Anthony! Sweeney lunged toward him to discover that the boy was still breathing. These head wounds could be dangerous, though. Once again he mopped the blood from Anthony's forehead—scalp wounds always bled fiercely—and found no depression or weaknesses in the bone. Anthony's head had been rattled, but he should be all right.

He needed Anthony to be all right, Sweeney told himself, because he needed Anthony to identify Johanna.

Well, at least the boy would feel no pain when Sweeney cleaned his wounds.

While Sweeney was ripping up another sheet, Dew said quietly, "We can't think about just our girls. Is Mr. Hope badly injured?"

"He's got a thick skull," Sweeney replied. "Do you know the odd thing about Anthony? He said to me once that he trusted me to the grave."

"We will hope that it needn't come to that." Dew had retrieved his jacket—the blood didn't show too badly—and had put it on to hide his bandages. He was ready to fight again, no doubt—whether he had a shirt on or not.

Sweeney was adjusting the back of his barber chair so Anthony could recline a bit when quick steps on the stairs warned him of another visitor. Not again! He'd had more than enough surprises for one day. Stalking over to the door, he flung it open and stood menacingly in the doorway.

It was Toby. The boy was clutching a stiff envelope in his fist. "Mr. Todd, sir! The spectacle gent—have you seen 'im? Is he here? I've got a message for him and it's s'posed to be important!"

"Let the lad in, Mr. Todd." Dew held out his hand for the envelope. When Toby delivered it to him, he asked, "Who gave you the note, Toby?"

"Mr. Daniel, sir," Toby said. "The servant let me in once I showed him the envelope. Mr. Daniel came down, and I told 'im you'd paid me to bring it, and he gave me lunch, sir—it was awful good, sir. After awhile another man came in, all upset. He said to Mr. Daniel that they had a bloody mess on their hands—begging your pardon, sir—and that they needed Mr. Daniel's help. That's when he gave me that note, sir, and told me to deliver it quick as I could. I went first to your shop, but you weren't there, and since you come here so much I thought maybe Mr. Todd might have seen you, and well..."

Toby's voice trailed off as he saw Anthony lying unconscious in the barber chair. "Mr. Todd, sir, what's going on?" His eyes narrowed as he took a better look at Dew and saw the bandages and the bloodstains on his jacket.

Sweeney dragged him away from the barber chair and hissed, "You can't tell anyone what you've seen here. Not Mrs. Lovett, not anyone! Understand?"

The lad trembled with fear and looked ready to bolt. Sweeney tried again. "Mrs. Lovett—your Mum—could be in trouble if she got involved in this. That's why she can't know about it."

Toby nodded hesitantly, then blurted out, "You didn't hurt them, did you, Mr. Todd?" He gathered himself to run, then decided to stand his ground.

Sweeney stared at Toby for a moment, then shook his head. "No, this wasn't my doing. It seems that Mr. Dew has, umm, enemies."

Bloodstained jacket or no, the kindly twinkle in Dew's eyes would convince almost anyone to trust him to the grave. "You need to keep out of this, lad. We don't want you hurt. Were you followed when you came back here?"

Toby shook his head. "I thought that since Mr. Daniel was so upset it would be better to be secret-like. I pretended I was delivering a parcel from a shop so's nobody would figure I was bringing you a message."

"You're a sharp boy, Toby. Can you find us something to eat? This time you can pretend you're bringing it to Mr. Todd." Dew handed him a few coins."Just... not a pie, if you please."

Toby raced out the door before anyone could change their mind. As soon as he left, Sweeney locked the door and slammed down the blind.

He turned his attention to Dew and saw that the man had ripped open the heavy envelope and was perusing its contents. Dew's face went white with shock and he crumpled the note in his fist. "Oh, God, not Percy. He can't die. What would we do without Percy?"

"What happened?" Sweeney asked apprehensively. He'd never seen Dew like this.

Dew sank down on the cot and cradled his head in his hands. "The criminals that Turpin is conniving with have shot our leader. This has to be the work of Knight's Ghosts—no other criminals would be so bold as to gun down an English nobleman on the very steps of the Halls of Parliament. Anyone else in the League may be a target too. This is the only thing the League can spend time on right now, Todd. We're on our own."

An English Lord shot on the steps of Parliament! Even for Sweeney, that was inconceivable. While he was trying to make some sense of it all, Dew slammed his fist down on the cot and angrily shouted out an order—although not to Sweeney Todd. "Enough of this, Dewhurst! We have a mission to complete."

The old man that Sweeney knew as Tony Dew stood up straightbacked and indomitable, a soldier with a mission and a cause that he was willing to die for. Ignoring his wounded arm and his sore ribs, Dew grabbed his swordcane and said in a voice that grew more resonant as it gained command and power, "No matter what, we shall prevail. We will get our daughters back, I promise you."

"A mission?" Anthony Hope sat up again. He must have been awake long enough to hear what they'd been saying. It was Sweeney Todd to whom he directed his question, though.

"I couldn't help but hear, Mr. Todd. I... is... is Johanna your daughter?"


	8. Secrets of the Knight

_**Author's Note**_

Back from the holidays – I hope everyone's holiday was good! The plot thickens...

IamSiriuslyPadfoot, Alice, and Jill – thanks for your continued reading and support. Don't worry, this story will be finished.

Thanks for the reviews – they are my only reward.

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><p><em><strong>Secrets of the Knight<strong>_

Johanna Barker was one of Sweeney's many secrets, and he never revealed his secrets. But why not, he asked himself suddenly. Didn't he want Anthony to reveal something to him? "Yes, it's true. I have not seen Johanna since she was a babe. She knows nothing about me."

Anthony gazed at him sorrowfully. "Johanna was screaming that her name was Johanna Barker, not Turpin. I thought that surely that someone would come to help, but no one did."

She knew her name—she knew! Sweeney did not trust himself to speak. Turpin had made his daughter scream—Turpin would pay. His blood would dance off Sweeney's silver razor in a fountain.

"Did she now? Did Johanna scream anything else?" Dew asked thoughtfully. He seemed to be under control now, but Sweeney could still sense his simmering fury.

There was a long woozy silence from Anthony. "I couldn't hear everything she said. She kept screaming about fogs. And there was something else..." He rubbed his head and said ruefully, "It hurts me to think. I can't quite remember."

After a moment more, Anthony added. "Mr. Todd, what's happening? It looks like Johanna is caught up in something more than... well, just trying to flee her guardian."

Sweeney resolutely put Johanna back into the safe place in his memories. "The boy is right, Dew. Exactly what is going on? What is that League of yours so afraid of?"

Dew pursed his lips thoughtfully, then shrugged. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Mr. Todd, I told you earlier that Judge Turpin was involved with a criminal enterprise. It is a very dangerous criminal enterprise indeed, a conspiracy that threatens all of London, perhaps all of England."

"A few months ago, my friends and I—ah, let us be frank here, the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel—learned of the activities of a most formidable criminal mastermind. A veritable Napoleon of Crime, if you will. We do not know his real name—only that he is called Mr. Knight. All of the London gangs are falling under his control, and his tendrils reach even into the English courts of law. When one of Knight's Ghosts is captured, he is never convicted of his crime. Witnesses disappear or change their testimony—or the judge simply throws the case out of court. That's where Judge Turpin fits in. And what's even worse, Mr. Knight is recruiting professional soldiers. Men who fought for England in the wars against Napoleon but were turned off with a shilling when peace returned."

Dew smiled grimly at Sweeney Todd. "We had few other leads, so I decided to focus my own investigations on Turpin. I quickly ferreted out the illegalities in his financial history and heard many unpleasant stories about his sexual proclivities. Then there was Turpin's young ward, Johanna. Turpin was never married, he has no family connections—so where did Johanna come from?"

Sweeney swallowed hard and tried not to let his emotions show.

"And what did you find out?" asked Anthony, glancing sideways at Sweeney's face.

"It took me a while to piece together the story, and I'm sure I don't know it all." Dew glanced over at Sweeney, who nodded numbly. "Johanna is the only daughter of Benjamin Barker, a barber who was transported to Australia after being convicted on false charges by Judge Turpin. His wife Lucy died soon afterwards and Turpin made their orphaned child his ward."

"The barber and his wife," Anthony whispered. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Todd. I'd hoped... I will not tell anyone of this. Your secrets are safe with me."

Sweeney felt the young man's hand on his shoulder and tried not to flinch.

Dew cleared his throat and continued in a determinedly businesslike manner. "I tried for some time to place a spy into Turpin's household but had no success until I received a note from Marguerite—my daughter, Mr. Hope. She informed me she wasn't visiting a sick friend in Islington, she'd ensconced herself in Turpin's house as a maid. Meg also told me that she'd become Johanna's friend and that Turpin was involved with Knight and his men up to his greasy neck. After that I heard nothing from her for two weeks."

"It was an intolerable situation, but I couldn't just break into Turpin's house and haul Meg out—although I was sorely tempted. We—that is to say, my youngest son and I—were keeping watch on Turpin's house and we noticed that a young sailor had become smitten with Johanna. So I followed you one day, Mr. Hope, and I wound up at this barber-shop. After introducing myself to Mr. Todd I explained our common interest. He gave me Meg's most recent message—the note wrapped around Johanna's key—and we agreed to work together."

Sweeney snorted. It all sounded so simple the way Dew told it. And maybe it was—if you were Tony Dew. "We still need to track down our daughters. Have you any idea how to accomplish that?"

Dew shook his head. "Nothing has come to me yet. I must confess, I'm not the master strategist that Percy is."

Sweeney Todd tried to ignore the way Dew's eyes shadowed when he spoke his friend's name. He'd never even met this Lord Percy and he had problems enough of his own. "Like Turpin, Dew, you have social standing and money. Where would you send your daughter if you wanted her to be frightened?"

"To the Bastille?" Dew chuckled ruefully, then grew more serious. "Perhaps one of the local gaols? The Judge could grease a few palms and say that our girls were awaiting trial."

Now that was something Sweeney Todd had some knowledge of. "Not a chance, Dew. Turpin would never risk a girl's virginity in gaol if he intended to make her his wife later."

Sweeney paced back and forth in front of his window as he thought about the problem. This was a puzzle, a mental exercise. He'd spent many an hour thinking about puzzles below decks. Find all the pieces, put them together...

He wheeled and stared hard at Anthony, who was trying to blink himself awake. Exhausted and injured, not a good combination. "Anthony! Can't you remember anything else that Johanna said?"

"I—I just can't, Mr. Todd." Anthony said wretchedly. "The Beadle hit me over the head and everything that happened before that is just... hazy."

For whatever reason, Sweeney Todd had some influence over Anthony Hope's mind. He intended to employ that influence now.

"All right, Anthony, We'll do this step by step. Turpin was taking Johanna away. What's the first thing you saw and the first thing you heard?"

Anthony put his head into his hands and thought. "I was standing just beyond the empty house next to Turpin's so I couldn't hear very much. But there was screaming and I saw the two girls struggling with Turpin and the Beadle so I started to run."

"Good, good." Sweeney fondled the silver razor in his pocket and said in the calmest voice he could manage, "You're running toward them now—what happens next?"

"A black coach is coming toward them so I run faster." Anthony's eyes were closed in concentration. "The Beadle throws the other girl over his shoulder—I think she's kicking him. Johanna is screaming to me—fog, fog, Anthony. Fog!"

Sweeney momentarily flicked his attention to Dew and realized that the other man was holding his breath. "You've reached the coach now, Anthony—what do you see and hear?"

"The Beadle has thrown both girls into the coach. Turpin is pulling open the coach door. He glares at me with hate in his eyes. I'm trying to get to Johanna but the Beadle is in the way. She's screaming and crying, 'Anthony! Anthony! Fogg's Asylum! Fogg's Asylum!"

When he opened his eyes again, Anthony saw identical shocked expressions on the faces of Sweeney Todd and Tony Dew. "Did I say something important?"

"A madhouse," Dew said bitterly. "That evil monster put our daughters into a madhouse."

Sweeney was about to say something similar when—one more bloody time!—he heard Toby just outside the door. "I can take it in to 'im, Mum. He's not feeling well—I don't think he wants to worry you."

"You said that he wanted food. Just once I'd like to see the man eat." Mrs. Lovett's voice was even more giddy and excited than usual.

All three men eyed each other in alarm. Sweeney gestured at the dark corner behind his cracked mirror and barked at Dew, "You! Hide behind there." Then he shoved Anthony back into the chair and handed him a large bucket. "Act like you're sick."

After a moment of confusion, Anthony bent over the bucket and began to make guttural coughing noises. Dew grasped his swordcane and seemed to melt into the darkness. "I feel like I'm a character in a French farce!"

A French farce! Sweeney felt like making guttural noises himself. That man would crack a joke if he was walking up to the guillotine. He quickly shoved the basin that had Dew's bloody shirt soaking in it under the cot.

Well, he might as well face it—Mrs. Lovett wasn't going away. She'd keep on rattling the doorknob until he unlocked the door. So he sighed and went to unlock it. And indeed, Mrs. Lovett barged right in as soon as Sweeney opened the door. The tray she was proudly carrying held an earthenware teapot and two cups, a big bowl of stew, a hunk of brown bread, even a bit of jam. Toby peeked inside but didn't come in.

It could be that he didn't feel welcome.

"It's about time you developed an appetite, love—you're practically skin and bones. My stew is sure to perk you right up. It's sad, but I've practically run out of meat pies," she declared gaily as she set the tray down on Sweeney's bureau.

"Ugggh! Ooogh! Aggh!"

At the sound of Anthony's histrionic choking, Mrs. Lovett turned around and stared at the young sailor, who'd stuck his head halfway into the bucket.

"Is he all right, Mr. T?" she asked faintly.

"Anthony was taken ill rather suddenly," Sweeney told her. "I'm sure he'll be better soon."

"Hhhhkkk!" Anthony's gagging noises reverberated quite nicely inside the bucket.

"You don't think it's catching, do you?" Mrs. Lovett ventured.

"I really wouldn't know." Sweeney raised one eyebrow. "I'm only a barber."

"Well, umm, I s'pose I ought to be leaving now."

"Yes, I suppose you should. I have work to do," Sweeney agreed instantly.

As Mrs. Lovett shuffled her feet in unaccustomed embarrassment, she noticed that a blue embroidered waistcoat was wadded up on the floor. Tony Dew's expensive garment had been sliced nearly in two and was smeared with blood on one side.

Startled, she glanced at Sweeney and lowered her voice to a loud stage-whisper, "So, you finally figured the old guy out, did you? Work to do, huh? I knew you wouldn't let me down, love." She patted his cheek and practically skipped toward the door.

Sweeney shoved Mrs. Lovett outside, then locked the door behind her. Her voice was penetrating at its softest, so Dew and Anthony had probably heard every word. But fortunately, none of her words would make any sense to them.

Dew slipped out from behind the mirror with a quizzical smile on his lips and Anthony lowered the thankfully-empty bucket to the floor. "She does worry about you, Mr. Todd."

"She's a worrisome sort of woman." He had important things to think about and wasting time on Mrs. Lovett wouldn't help. Except that... except that...

"I'm a barber! I have work to do!"

"We're both aware of that," replied a mystified Dew.

"No, that's our solution! Wigmakers get their human hair from the lunatics at places like Bedlam. For the right price, a madhouse will sell you the hair off any madman's head. We can go to Fogg's Asylum and say we're wigmakers who need hair the exact shade as Johanna's..." Sweeney's voice fell as he remembered that he had no idea what that shade was.

Anthony smiled in loving remembrance. "It's light yellow."

"I must teach you to be a creditable wigmaker, Dew," Sweeney said. "Both of you, actually. Anthony will have to be the one to identify her."

Dew nodded approvingly. "Good idea, Todd—very good indeed. I need paper and a pen, please. I have to write to a friend in the Royal College of Surgeons and ask him a few questions about Fogg's Asylum. I'm sure Toby will take the message."

A corner of Sweeney's mouth quirked. "In the meantime, Mrs. Lovett did bring me lunch—and it isn't pie. The two of you should help me out. I'll never be able to finish it."


	9. Green Finch and Linnet Bird

_**Author's Note**_

A few story notes: For those Sherlock Holmes fans that might be thinking that the Napoleon of Crime is Moriarty, sorry... the good Professor wouldn't have been born yet. This is the 1830s, after all.

DorisTheYounger and I visited London last year and walked down Fleet Street – it's much smaller than you'd imagine. We saw where some folks claim Sweeney Todd's shop would have been, and did see St. Dunstan's Church and the clock (which is really interesting). And, of course, we did have a meat pie in a pub on Fleet Street.

IamSiriuslyPadfoot, Alice, Jill and LadyCrow – thanks for your continued reading and support. Don't worry, this story will be finished.

Thanks for the reviews – they are my only reward.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Green Finch and Linnet Bird<strong>_

When the black coach rumbled up to the gate of Fogg's Asylum, Johanna took one look at the foreboding grey building and her heart filled with horror. It was a prison, not a hospital. All of its windows were barred and even at a distance she could hear the faint sound of screams. From under her lashes she peeked at Judge Turpin. He was just as grey and foreboding as the asylum himself. It didn't seem to bother him at all that he was putting his own ward into a madhouse. He'd tried for years to destroy her spirit and now he wanted to finish the job.

Meg should never have come to the Judge's house—should never have gotten involved with someone like her. Johanna's only friend was lying still and quiet on the floor of the coach. She didn't dare move—every time she did, the Judge would press his booted foot onto her body and grind his heel.

The coach stopped and Turpin stepped out nonchalantly. Clamping his hand onto one of Johanna's wrists, he pulled her out so fast that she stumbled and nearly fell. "Come along, Johanna. It will be much the worse for you if you don't."

On the other side of the carriage, two burly men in canvas uniforms dragged Meg out of the coach. One pinioned her arms behind her back so roughly that she squeaked and the other marched her up the stairs to the asylum.

Johanna shuddered. So that was the worse.

As she walked with Turpin up the stairs, the Beadle smirked at them from the top of the coach.

When they reached the double doors of the entrance, a man in a white coat was waiting for them. He was longnosed and short, and there was no hair on the top of his head. The watch fob dangling from his pocket, though, had been braided from hair of five different colors. He directed a look of insincere solicitude at Johanna and said with oily suggestiveness, "So this is your wayward child, milord. What is your desire for her?"

The Judge's harsh tones were almost a relief. "Johanna has severely disappointed me. I want her to remain here until she realizes the error of her ways and accepts my authority."

"And the other girl?" The man with the hair-fob turned his gaze at Meg, who was fuming at the rough manhandling she'd received.

"She's nothing but a troublemaking Irish wench," Turpin sneered. "I trust your judgment, Mr. Fogg. Deal with her in whatever way seems best to you. I shall take my leave now. There are other matters that I must attend to."

Turpin dug his hard fingers into Johanna's shoulder and whispered coldly into her ear. "You must forget the sailor, my dear. Learn to submit to my will and please me, and I will eventually forgive you."

With those words, he abandoned her to her fate.

Mr. Fogg reached out one hand to cup her face and studied her closely. "You won't give me any trouble now, will you my dear?"

Whatever could she say? Johanna had no idea how to respond.

Fogg sighed and asked her again, "I said, you will not cause me any trouble, will you?"

His grip grew more and more painful until Johanna cried out. Fogg smiled and told her, "That's good. If you behave you shall have a sweetie."

After that Fogg turned his attention toward Meg. Her head was bent low and her long curly hair covered her face. When he pulled her hair to lift her head up, she hissed in pain but did not allow any more sounds to escape her lips. Meg's green eyes blazed in anger when he smiled cruelly and said, "She shows clear signs of mental degradation, like most of the Irish."

In spite of herself, Johanna protested. "How dare you! You don't even know her."

Fogg slapped Johanna's face. "You will speak when I tell you to." He turned to the two men who were still pinning Meg's arms. "We'll be taking them to the discipline room first—I'll need good light to sort their hair color properly."

Within the asylum they walked down a dark, echoing hallway dimly lit with flickering gas lights. From behind the barred iron doors Johanna could hear a dreadful chorus of screams and moans. Alarmed, she glanced over at Meg. The other girl put her chin up and gave her a determined look. If only for a small moment, Johanna's spirits lifted. So long as they had each other, she knew they could survive.

Then an orderly unlocked the door to the discipline room and her fear returned full force.

The walls of the discipline room were paneled in cork and its floor was covered with dirty mats. From high overhead, gaslights illuminated ominous objects that Johanna would rather not have seen. Iron chains that dangled from a rack. The metal table cinched with a row of heavy leather straps. A wooden tub in the center of the room. Johanna didn't know what the tub would be used for, but its cover was held shut with a heavy wooden bar and braced by little slats.

Without warning, Fogg grabbed a hank of her hair and threaded it slowly through his fingers. "I suppose the Judge may want you to keep these locks." Then he turned his attention to Meg and her hair.

Just when Johanna thought that things couldn't get worse, Fogg said calmly to one of the orderlies, "Bring a straitjacket for the Irish girl. I do believe that she would benefit from a bit of restraint." Terrified, Johanna glanced over at Meg. She'd never even heard of a straight-jacket! But Meg clearly had—her face had gone white with horror.

Before either of them had a chance to react, another orderly showed up holding a large canvas jacket with straps and long sleeves. Despite Meg's kicks and struggles, he forced the jacket onto her arms with practiced ease. Johanna screamed and tried to stop him, but another orderly pulled her back.

Once the jacket had been strapped onto Meg, Fogg dealt her a backhanded blow that threw her onto the floor. With her arms trapped in the confines of the jacket she could not get to her feet, or even to her knees. The orderly pulled off her boots and stockings, then ran his hands underneath her skirt.

"You see, that's what will happen to your little friend if you disappoint me," Fogg told Johanna. "I'm going to separate the two of you for a time. You will be sent to the blonde-hair cells and young Meg here will go to the red-hair cells. The red-hair cells are not nearly as nice, but it's no matter. She may not linger there for very long."

As the orderly began to take Johanna away, Fogg stopped him. "No, Turpin's ward must be bound as well. For her we'll use only the leather restraints—she's such a delicate flower, isn't she?" The leather straps that they placed onto Johanna bound her upper arms firmly to her sides, although she could move her lower arms and hands a little. At least the heavy straps meant that no one would try to take away her clothes, although the orderly stripped off her shoes and stockings. No one would find the letters tucked into her bodice.

She couldn't help but shiver when the orderly took her away from Fogg and marched her down the hall. Opening one of the doors, he pushed her inside a big room and slammed the door behind her.

The room was crammed with women of every age—and all of them were blonde. First she was hit by the rank stench of unwashed bodies, and then by the sound of moaning and keening and sobbing and laughing and cursing. She couldn't even pull up her hands to cover her ears. Most of the women were huddled on benches bolted to the wall, but a few wandered about in aimless circles. As one girl turned toward her, Johanna was shocked to see that she'd gouged furrows in her face with her own fingernails. On one side of the room a hatchet-faced woman was hitting the wall with her fists, over and over and over again. And then a vacant-eyed girl drifted over to Johanna and started to hum and stroke her hair. Johanna trembled and couldn't stop trembling.

She was surrounded by madwomen—but she was all alone. Perhaps she would soon go mad herself.

No! She had to be brave! As she closed her eyes and tried to withdraw into her own mind, Johanna realized that she wasn't alone at all. Anthony would never stop searching for her and her father loved her.

In the private refuge that she'd created for herself years before, the two men who cared the most for her suddenly appeared to protect her. It was so easy to visualize Anthony—she could look up into his dear face and see him smiling down at her. But where her father's face ought to be there was only a blank. _He_ had always told Johanna that she looked just like her mother—but he'd never said a word about her father.

In her mind's eye, an image of Johanna's father slowly began to form. To escape from Australia and travel across half the world to her, Benjamin Barker would have to be hard and terrible. After years of convict labor he would be strong—stronger than those awful men who'd put her in restraints. And because he was a barber, he would have a razor in his hand.

She still couldn't see his face—but what she could see was enough.

She would live through all this somehow and escape this dreadful place. The people who'd put her here would pay for what they had done to Meg and to her. Especially Judge Turpin. Especially _Him_.


	10. Sweeney Todd's Apprentices

_**Author's Note**_

So how do folks like this version of Johanna? She definitely takes after her father... I've always thought Johanna was a much stronger personality than she showed.

They're making the final preparations before the big breakout... but we all know that no plan ever survives contact with the enemy.

Please review – reviews are my only reward.

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><p><em><strong>Sweeney Todd's Apprentices<strong>_

Their final plan was not up to Sweeney's meticulous standards, but it was the best they could do for the moment. Early that evening Dew and Anthony sneaked out of the barber-shop while Sweeney went down to the pie shop to distract Mrs. Lovett. He asked the woman for a glass of gin and she poured another for herself to celebrate. To celebrate what, Sweeney didn't dare ask—but Mrs. Lovett had always been able to fill up his silences with her own flood of words.

Once he was sure that his compatriots were long gone, Sweeney retreated back up to his shop and hastily packed a bag with his razors, his barbering gear, and the gun that he'd purchased in the pawnshop. His precious daguerreotype he carefully closed and put away in his bureau drawer. Then he waited until Mrs. Lovett opened the heavy bakehouse doors and crept down the stairs to the street. He'd endured many unpleasant things in his life, but he didn't want to endure Mrs. Lovett after she found out that he'd failed her.

Heading down Fleet Street toward Temple Bar, Sweeney found himself a small gin house. It was new enough that the floors were almost clean and there were some little tables in the back where he could sit by himself. The few pennies he had left would last for awhile here, and he could sit at the table and plan—or at least sit.

Sweeney nursed his gin through the hours and tried to figure out his next move. Things were going to get tricky. He could sneak back into his barber-shop, but how long could he avoid Mrs. Lovett? For that matter, how could Dew and Anthony avoid her? He had to teach them to be wigmakers and they needed to get together to do that.

Eventually he noticed that the young slattern who was serving the drinks was scowling at him. He was wasting space at a table and wasn't spending enough money.

For a wild moment Sweeney thought of returning to the pawnshop where he'd purchased his gun—maybe Georges and Albin would let him sleep on their floor. Then it occurred to him that he knew the address of Dew's shop. If he was going to sleep on anybody's floor, it ought to be Dew's. He'd just stood up to leave when his eye was caught by a small figure in the doorway.

What the hell was Toby doing here? Sweeney sat back down and ducked his head, but Toby spotted him anyway and came straight to him. After downing what remained of his gin, he picked up his satchel in one hand and grabbed Toby's collar with the other. As he dragged the lad out of the gin shop Sweeney overheard the comments that one would expect about the "poor lad trying to get his drunken father to come home."

"What are you doing here?" Sweeney growled. He pushed Toby against a brick wall and glared into the lad's face. Toby tried to pull away, but Sweeney was in no mood to let him go. "Have you delivered Dew's message?"

"'Course I did—hours ago!" Toby's eyes were wide and filled with tears. "Mrs. Lov—Mum sent me to look for you. She's awful upset—I've never seen her like this before! I won't tell her where you are—I won't say anything. Please sir, let me go!"

"What did she say? Speak!" Sweeney hissed.

Toby shook his head pleadingly. "She said that you owed her and that you ought to do your part. Sir, please, it hurts!"

Sweeney loosened his grip—but only slightly. What should he do with Toby? Of course he could always cut his throat. Killing him would make sure that he wouldn't talk, but...

"You're coming with me now." Sweeney's hand was still clamped on his shoulder, so Toby had no choice. He opened his silver razor and showed it to Toby, then shoved it back into its holster. "Don't try to run away, boy. I'm in no mood for tricks tonight."

After some back-and-forth wandering in a patch of twisty new side streets, Sweeney finally found the right one, and after a few more moments he was able to identify Dew's shop. When Toby realized where they were going, he protested, "Why din't you tell me you were lookin' for the old gent's shop? I been there—I could've taken you right to it!"

Sweeney was in no mood to be criticized either so he squeezed Toby's shoulder sharply to silence him.

Dew's so-called shop didn't look like much—it was the narrowest building on the street. There was no sign on the storefront—just a long thin shuttered window next to the door. The window looked like it had just been cleaned but there was nothing in it. Before he rapped at the door, Sweeney checked quickly to the left and the right to make sure nobody was watching.

He heard footsteps inside and the sound of something heavy being moved. A peephole in the door was quickly uncovered and shut. Then the door was opened and somebody pulled Sweeney inside—along with Toby.

As soon as the door was closed, a shadowy figure uncovered a lamp to reveal a tired Tony Dew, who was now wearing a blue jacket and a red waistcoat. "What's going on? Why did you bring the boy here?"

Sweeney scowled. "Toby knew where your shop is. Don't worry, we weren't followed. I can't stay at my shop any more—we can't afford questions."

Dew nodded. "All right, there's an extra cot in the back room. Come along—I've been making preparations." The front room was practically empty except for a battered desk that held some optical lenses in a wooden box and a single lighted candle. When Dew led them into the back room, it was clear that he'd been living in it. Two narrow cots were jammed against a stack of boxes and his swordcane was open on a small table next to a sharpening stone. An oil lantern dangled from a hook from the ceiling.

Fascinated, Toby gaped at the swordcane. "Can you really use that sword?"

Dew directed a questioning look at Sweeney, who shrugged. It was now up to Dew to decide what to do with the boy. "Yes, I can," Dew said quietly. "Sit down, Toby. I need to talk to you." Toby obediently sat down on one of the cots.

"Mr. Todd and I need to do something important," Dew began. "Can you keep a secret?"

Looking up trustingly at Dew, Toby nodded. "This is about Mr. Hope's Johanna, isn't it?"

Dew raised an eyebrow and Toby hastily explained. "All Mum and I've heard from him for weeks was about his Johanna, and how he wanted Mr. Todd to help him look for her. Wouldn't keep his mouth shut about it, he wouldn't. She's locked up somewheres, isn't she?" At Sweeney's incredulous snort, he retorted, "I may not be smart but I ain't dumb."

Dew nodded solemnly. "She's been locked up in a madhouse, even though she isn't mad. We have to get her out of that place somehow."

Toby's jaw dropped. "A madhouse! They're worse than the workhouses, they are. They're not fit for any human creature. I've seen one before—only for a visit, you understand—when my old master took me to help him cut the mad girls' hair. I'll help you, sir. I promise. And Mr. Todd don't need to do anything to me—I won't talk."

How did the man do it, Sweeney wondered. He'd been able to terrify the boy into obedience, but Dew had gained Toby's trust with only a few words. Come to think of it, he almost trusted Dew himself. Up to a point, anyway.

"Thank you, Toby," Dew was saying. "I'll want you to run some errands for us and after that, you can go wherever you want to go. Back to the pie shop or to anywhere else. Wherever you choose."

"Umm, speaking of pies, sir... Mum was so upset, I didn't even want to sneak down earlier for one of her pies."

Dew chuckled. "And you're a growing boy who needs to eat. I had ham and bread for supper and there's plenty left. As a matter of fact, there should be plenty for all of us—and I do owe Mr. Todd a meal."

After they finished their late-night supper, Dew brought out a wine bottle and two glasses. It was always the waiting that strung up your nerves, he told Sweeney. Once the action started there'd be no time to worry. Sweeney had to agree. He'd seriously considered pacing the night away instead of going to bed. The combination of decent food, French wine and a bellyful of gin, however, was enough to make him collapse into Dew's spare cot and fall into an exhausted sleep.

In the morning Toby was gone. Dew offered Sweeney a breakfast of bread and honey, then told him to stay in the back room. "I must pretend that my shop is open and I don't know how we'd explain what a barber is doing here." He opened the front room's window shutters and set out the case of optical lenses where they could be seen.

"You won't attract many customers like that," Sweeney said dryly. "Do you actually know anything about spectacle-making?"

"It's a hobby of mine—although I've worked more with telescopes than spectacles. Your friend Anthony should be here soon. I sent out Toby with a message—he should be back with my answer by noon."

A few minutes later Anthony knocked at the door. The bruise on his cheek was turning purple and he'd removed the bandage on his head. There was a small spyglass in his hands. As he said to Dew, "I thought it might explain my visit."

Sweeney had come to the doorway to watch them. Remembering the previous day's misadventures, he realized that Dew was still favoring his injured arm.

Dew noticed his concern and dismissed it. "My arm doesn't pain me very much. Believe me, I've survived worse." Anthony set down his spyglass on the desk and the three men went into the back room. It was time for Tony Dew and Anthony Hope to learn the trade of wigmaking.

Most of the morning was spent on the basics of selecting and cutting hair. Sweeney had no idea how far their wigmaking charade would have to go, so he wanted to teach the two men everything that he could. Dew had somehow acquired an old French periwig and Sweeney used it to show them how to cut long hair.

Even Anthony managed to pick up the barest essentials of the barber's trade by the time that Toby returned to the shop with a note.

Dew swiftly read the coded message, then breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God! Percy is expected to recover. The man has the strength of a lion but age comes to us all."

Turning over the note, he continued to read. "My friend Jean-Michel says that he's heard of Fogg's Asylum, but nothing good about it. He will send me everything that he can find out about the place later this afternoon. Thank you, Toby, this was very useful."

Toby beamed and offered Dew a sticky handful of yellow candy. "I thought you might like some of these—lemon drops are my favorite sweeties. Mr. Todd can have one too, if he likes. He could surely use something sweet!" he added cheekily.

Sweeney frowned briefly, but accepted a lemon drop anyway. They'd all been working hard and everyone deserved a treat. The pieces of their plan were beginning to fall into place. By evening at worst they would be ready to mount their attack.


	11. Anyone Can Whistle

_**Author's Note**_

And the action starts with everyone in place... Once again I've put in nods to people associated with the Sweeney Todd play. See if you can spot them.

When DorisTheYounger first saw Sweeney Todd, she couldn't believe that Sweeney was not trying to rescue his daughter. That, of course, is his real tragedy... but things are different in this story.

Please review – reviews are my only reward.

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><p><em><strong>Anyone Can Whistle<strong>_

Tony Dew and his band of amateur Pimpernels had stopped at the corner of Sidney Street to stare up at the cheerless fortress that was Fogg's Asylum. The building was situated on a nondescript road a little past the confines of the City of London and Whitechapel. Although it was still only late afternoon, the tall, close-set warehouses and factories all around them cast deep shadows broken only slightly by a handful of streetlights.

Dew's friend hadn't been able to tell them much about what they'd find within the asylum. It was divided by an interior wall into a men's section and a women's section, and the only way inside that they could find was a large double door in the middle of the stone face of the building. Toby had wandered into a small alley around the corner and found stables—presumably Fogg's—but no back entrance into the asylum. He was now holding the reins of two frisky horses. Their covered coach was small—with four people inside they'd be packed like herrings.

Sweeney Todd silently examined the madhouse and its surroundings. The windows over the front door were supposed to look into the women's section, but they were all barred, and only a few of them emitted any light. Fogg's Asylum looked to be a cold, dark, hungry place. Even the gaols he'd been thrown into had been no worse than this. And Johanna had been imprisoned in this hellhole for days! She would not remain in it one night longer.

Sweeney felt icy calm and ready for action. They had a plan and he intended to stick to it. He was wearing borrowed clothing that Dew called 'Daniel's skulking outfit'—black coat, black vest, black trousers, and a dark grey shirt. His silver razors were holstered at his waist and he had his barber tools in a shoulder bag.

His companions also seemed as ready as they were going to be. Dew carried a carpetbag in one hand and his reliable swordcane under his arm. He'd tucked a revolver into one of his coat pockets.

Anthony had a gun in his coat pocket too—Sweeney's flintlock pistol—but he wasn't at all happy about it. He was staring up at one of the few lighted windows and mouthing the words to the old barber's ditty: "There's tawny, and there's golden saffron. There's flaxen, and there's blonde! There's coarse, there's straight, there's fine and curly. There's grey, there's white as ashes..."

It was time to go. Sweeney closed his jacket over his holstered razors. Dew nodded almost imperceptibly at him and then said, "Toby, this carriage must be here when we come out. If you are accosted, say anything, but hold this carriage here at all costs. Mr. Todd, Mr. Hope, let's try to be subtle here. We really can't afford a bloodbath."

Sweeney rolled his eyes. Was Dew trying to give Anthony the vapors? What a thing to say to a Quaker!

With Sweeney right behind him, Dew walked up to the asylum, rapped confidently on the front door with his cane, and bounced on his heels as he waited. Anthony hunched his shoulders and ducked his head, looking for all the world like a nervous apprentice.

After a moment the door was opened by a large moon-faced doorman who was dressed in a white canvas uniform. Dew swooped his hand in a grandiloquent gesture. "Good afternoon, young man. I find myself with an immediate need of hair for wigs. If you can help me to get what I need it could be an opportunity for you to make a little extra money."

"You'll be wanting to speak with Mr. Fogg, then. He's in charge of all of that," the young doorman replied, oblivious to Dew's offer of a bribe. The lad might be almost full grown, but his cunning would never equal Toby's. "We do have a lot of hair here. I think that the redheads are nicest, myself, but nobody else does."

Sweeney started to count steps as the doorman led them down the stone-floored main hall. There was no point to estimating time—they'd be going out much faster than they were going in. He noticed that the gaslights were mounted high on the wall—it wouldn't be possible to meddle with them.

After about thirty paces, the doorman stopped in front of a big oak door with a shiny brass nameplate: "James Fogg, M.D." He opened the door and poked his head into the room. "It's wigmakers, sir. They need some hair and they're willing to pay well."

As the four men entered the room, James Fogg, M.D. was already rising from his chair. He was middle-aged and balding, and his white coat was no cleaner than a barber's. "Very good, Kenneth. You can go back to your door duties now."

Fogg moved from behind his desk and offered his hand to Dew a little too quickly, then said with an insincere smile, "James Fogg, sir. And you are?"

"George Hurst," Dew answered with hearty deceitfulness. "I have a wigmaking establishment in Mayfair and I need some hair for a special commission."

Sweeney could see suspicion glinting in Fogg's eyes. Why would a society wigmaker venture into a shoddy place like this? Pushing his way to the fore, he said hastily, "My name is Sweeney Todd—I have a barbershop on Fleet Street. Mr. Hurst has a large commission to fill and he needs specific shades of hair. We've been to other asylums looking for the right hair but have not found enough."

His concerns allayed, Fogg nodded eagerly. "I am sure that I can help you. My children are always happy to assist me. Do you require male or female hair? And what colors are you looking for?"

Dew's smile did not reach his eyes. "Female. I need light blonde and auburn red."

"Blondes are always at a premium, but I have more than enough redheads. It's such a common—" Fogg broke off his remark and coughed as he noticed what color Dew's hair was.

"How soon can we begin?" Sweeney growled.

"Oh, immediately," Fogg said. "We can set the price once you see what I have."

Fogg led "Hurst" and his companions up a flight of massive stone stairs to a narrow second-floor hallway. The grated ceiling let in some light, but Sweeney did not see many lamps. After sundown this place would be dark indeed. The thick metal doors they were passing had very simple locks. He was no locksmith, but he was sure that they would be easy to pick—or to break.

As if they were merely taking an afternoon stroll in the park, Fogg was chatting pleasantly. "We have quite a number of blondes just now, and many are young and still healthy. As you can imagine, most of the redheads are Irish. I trust that will not be a problem?"

"Hair is hair," Dew said tonelessly.

Now that they were closer to the madwomen it was hard to ignore their pathetic screams and moans. The dreadful prison smell caused by too many people and too few baths brought back Sweeney's memories of the worst time in his life. He could tell from Anthony's shocked expression that the asylum horrified him, but it wasn't doing Sweeney any good either.

The Plan—remember the Plan. How many guards would they have to deal with? So far he'd seen one guard at the end of the hallway, another guard at the bottom of the stairs—and Kenneth, of course—but there had to be many more.

A door on the other side of the staircase opened and an orderly in white backed into the hallway. He turned and said to Fogg, "Mr. Neil gave the girls their medicine before he set up the tub. It ought to be quiet in there for a while at least."

Fogg hastily cut him off. "Very good. In that case you can establish order down the hall—the girls at the other end seem to be getting noisy."

The orderly scowled. "Complete monsters, they are. I'll get my stick 'fore I go in there."

"So what room was that?" Dew was gazing curiously at the room past the stairs. "Would it have any hair that I could use?"

Fogg sniffed disdainfully. "I could take you into the rooms on the bad girls' side, but you wouldn't enjoy the experience. There's a good reason why we shackle them."

How many rooms filled with girls did they have in this place? Sweeney caught Dew's eye and Dew simply shrugged. They would deal with that problem if they came to it.

Fogg stopped in front of another door and slid its porthole window open so he could peer in. "This is our room for the blondes who are good girls. We want to start here, I think."

As Fogg unconcernedly opened the door Dew whispered to Sweeney, "We can't let ourselves be trapped inside. That door has to remain open." Sweeney nodded—one way or another he would make sure of that.

When they followed Fogg inside, what Sweeney could make out in the dim light reminded him shockingly of the convict ships. The continuous sound of crying and moaning made perfect sense to him. At least a score of women and girls—all blondes—had been crammed into a space that was far too small for half their number. Many of the madwomen were huddling on wooden pallets bolted to the wall, and Sweeney could see in their eyes a sick, uncomprehending helplessness that he knew far too well. This place was worse even than Bedlam! Bethlem Hospital, vile though it was, was not so unabashedly a hair factory.

A mad voice in the back of his head was screaming, "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

Not without my daughter.

Which one of these girls could she be? Sweeney anxiously scanned the room. The small flaxen-haired girl curled up at the end of one pallet? The saffron-headed girl who was sobbing into the arms of an old woman in a corner of the floor? Sweeney suddenly noticed a young girl in a thin blue gown who was glowering at them from the shadows. Her bare feet were filthy, her dark eyes glittered like steel, and her arms had been trussed up with some sort of leather-strap restraints.

To Sweeney's displeasure, Anthony walked right up and grasped the angry girl's arm. "How about this one, sir?" Her mouth fell open and she stared at him with astonishment.

"You'd better watch her, boy, she bites," Fogg snapped. "She's not a good girl after all, she isn't. I should put her across the hall with the bad girls, but she's such a fragile flower. You might as well take all of her hair now. She'll have no use for it here."

Anthony exchanged a meaningful look with his two companions. "Her hair's exactly the right color." Sweeney's world spun on a pivot. It was her! That was the signal! It was his daughter!

Fogg stomped over impatiently and seized a hank of the girl's light blonde hair. As he yanked at her hair, she glared at him with brown eyes filled with ice-cold fury—just like the eyes that Sweeney saw in the mirror every day. She didn't get those eyes from Lucy, he told himself dazedly. They're mine—she got those eyes from me!

Instantly, Anthony snatched Johanna out of Fogg's grasp and threw him against the wall. Sweeney didn't see Dew unsheathe his sword until the blade was at Fogg's throat. In a chill voice that threatened imminent retribution, Dew hissed, "We're taking this girl with us, and the one who came with her—the red-headed girl. Where is she?"

Sweeney hadn't even noticed what Dew was up to. Was he woolgathering? The Plan—get back to the Plan! Kicking the door fully open, he snapped the latch with his tooth extractor, then pulled out his razor and waited to see whether any guards would approach. Anthony, he was pleased to notice, had finally removed the flintlock pistol from his pocket.

Dew's sword had barely punctured the skin of Fogg's throat. His eyes were narrow with fury and his hand was clenched white-knuckled on the sword. "Where is the other girl? Speak!"

Fogg's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. "If you kill me, you'll never find her."

Dew dropped the blade a fraction of an inch and Anthony pointed his gun at the middle of Fogg's chest. They had to do something right now—they were wasting precious time.

At that moment Johanna stumbled away from Anthony and headed toward the door. When she came to a standstill, she was so close to Sweeney that he could feel the heat of her body. Bracing herself against the doorframe with one pinioned arm, she leaned forward into the hallway and began... to sing. "Green finch and linnet bird, nightingale, blackbird, how is it you sing?"

Where had Johanna learned that convict's trick? She was trying to draw the attention of the other girl—Dew's daughter—her friend. His little dove was peering into the hallway with such desperate concentration that she didn't seem to notice the man holding a razor over her head. After all these years he'd finally found his daughter, his angel, and she wasn't at all what he'd expected.

Sweeney squeezed his razor even tighter. Whatever she was, he would defend her to the grave.

Johanna paused to listen for a moment, then sang even more loudly. "How can you jubilate, sitting in cages, never taking wing?" After a little pause Sweeney heard a whistling noise from the end of the hallway that roughly approximated Johanna's song.

Johanna had heard it too. She turned to Dew—the group's leader, if you wanted to call him that—and bared her teeth in a humorless smile. "I know where Meg is. They've moved her to the bad girls' side." She gave Fogg one more poisonous glare and said, "We don't need this man any more. Deal with him in whatever way seems best to you, sir."

Dew's eyes shifted from Johanna's face to Sweeney's face and back again. Then he grabbed Fogg and swung him around until the tip of his sword pricked the back of Fogg's neck. "You will be keeping your mouth shut now. Walk ahead of me—quietly."

Fogg shuddered and did as he was told.

First objective, completed.

As Johanna shuffled into the hallway, Sweeney kept pace at her side, every nerve alert for danger on either side. Nothing on the left, nothing on the right. Good. Behind him he heard the sound of manic giggling and Sweeney knew that they'd have to hurry. It wouldn't take long for the mad girls to realize that the door latch was broken.

Passing the stairs, Sweeney glanced down the stairwell. Again, nobody was there. Somebody was still whistling at the end of the hall—from the room that Fogg had said they wouldn't enjoy. If he knew anything about Tony Dew, Fogg wasn't likely to enjoy it either. A high male voice shouted, "Stop that whistling!" and they heard the sound of a hard slap.

They still had to unbar the door, but Dew proved to be amazingly speedy at the task.

The orderly closest to the door was raising his stick to strike. Anthony pointed his flintlock and yelled in his best dogwatch bellow, "Put that down! Now!" The orderly nervously complied.

The first room had been bad, but the second was much worse. So little light was coming through the tiny windows that Sweeney could barely make out his surroundings—but he saw that the women crammed onto the wall benches had been shackled to them. It was like a convict ship on dry land.

Other than the whistling, the only noise in the room was a drowsy mutter broken now and then by sobs. So it was easy to tell where the whistling was coming from: a lidded cylinder in the middle of the room that had to be 'the tub.' A dark-coated man with pince-nez on his nose stood next to it, his hand raised for another slap at the girl who'd been stuffed into the tub. She was still whistling, and her bright green eyes stared out fearlessly through bedraggled dark auburn curls.

"Meg!" Johanna screamed from the doorway. Fogg chose that moment to make a break for it, and Anthony shot wildly at him. No, Anthony! You weren't actually supposed to shoot! Shots will draw the guards here for certain.

The man in the pince-nez was putting his hand into his coatpocket to get something out of it, so Sweeney didn't hesitate—it was only three steps to close the distance. He slashed his razor across the man's throat and felt blood spurting all over 'Daniel's skulking outfit.'

"Todd! Get my daughter!" Dew yelled. Out of the corner of his eye Sweeney saw that Anthony was grappling with Fogg and that Dew was joining in. He scrabbled briefly at the heavy bar that clamped the tub cover before he gave up and cut through the leather hinges with his razor. In one smooth motion, he hurled off the wooden lid.

The girl in the tub wasn't moving and her eyes were wide with shock. Of course they were—there was blood all over him and he'd just killed a man right in front of her.

"I came here with your father," Sweeney growled, then thrust his arms into the tub so he could pull her out. Shit! No wonder the girl wasn't moving—the tub was filled with ice water!

Sweeney's shoulder muscles bunched as he toiled to heave up the mass of a slender girl weighted down by a waterlogged straitjacket. When he finally pulled out the girl—Meg—he saw that her lips were going blue. The ragged petticoat that seemed to be all she was wearing runneled trickles of icewater onto equally-blue bare feet.

Anthony and Dew had tossed Fogg into the mass of girls shackled to one of the benches. The ones that were close enough had already started to beat him with their chains, so it didn't appear that Sweeney would have a chance to retrieve the gun Fogg had grabbed.

"Bring my daughter—we've got to get out of here!" Dew yelled.

Easier said than done. Sweeney bent his knees so that he could drag the girl over his shoulder, then stood up with a groan. Now he had to run. "What—ooof!" Meg gasped as her head collided with Sweeney's back. "Who are you? What's—Look! Behind you!"

An orderly had picked up his stick and was rushing toward him. Sweeney whirled and slashed out with his razor. Or tried to slash out—the girl was weighing down his right arm! But even the threat inspired the man to retreat back from his bloody blade.

Sweeney ran for the door with the girl slung over his shoulder, right behind Johanna and Anthony. Dew was already in the hallway, sword out and ready for action. "There are men at the end of the hall and more men coming up the stairs. There's no other way down—we'll have to charge them. Follow me!"

Sweeney's unexpected burden was really throwing him off his stride. And what was more, the girl was kicking him! "Stay still, you! Stop that kicking!"

"I'm not kicking, I'm trying to hang on! Look out, there's one behind you!" He slashed out as best he could and Meg yelped, "That's it, you're clear. There's the stairs!"

Bossy and self-willed—she was no pattern of the feminine virtues, Sweeney thought sarcastically as he clumped down the stairs. He'd lost count of his steps and the stairs seemed to stretch forever. If Dew and Anthony hadn't already dealt with the men coming up the stairs he could never have made it out. So long as he was carrying this girl his razor was practically useless. He could, however, smartly stomp a man already down on the floor with his hob-nailed boots.

About halfway down the stairs the girl managed to hook her feet around his waist to anchor herself. With only a damp petticoat clinging to them, her legs felt essentially naked—but at least she'd freed up his right arm. At the bottom of the stairs he slashed at an orderly that Dew must have missed somehow and scanned the area frantically. Where were the others?

Dew was fighting a veritable giant of a man who was wielding an equally giant truncheon. Kenneth the doorman had grabbed Johanna to keep her from fleeing, but with a wild look in her eyes, she fastened her teeth into Kenneth's hand. Screaming in pain, he ran away in the direction of Fogg's office.

Meanwhile, Anthony was being battered by another giant of a man. Did Fogg select his employees by size? Sweeney wondered suddenly. For a moment he feared that Anthony was getting the worst of it, but then the young sailor hit the giant hard in the gut and the man doubled over. Sweeney suddenly remembered times on the Bountiful that he'd watched Anthony hoist heavy ropes as if they were strings.

Sweeney turned to aid Dew just as the older man stabbed his opponent through the heart. As the giant toppled to the floor, Dew smoothly withdrew the blade. It didn't look like there were any more of Fogg's men in the immediate area. Another objective, completed.

The Plan! Think of the Plan!


	12. Mr Todd's Wild Ride

_**Author's Note**_

From the frying pan into the fire... you didn't think I'd let them get off that easily, did you?

The previous chapter included some nods to the musical. Kenneth the doorman is a nod to Ken Jennings, the original Toby. Mr. Neil, in his pince-nez, is a nod to Neil Patrick Harris, who played Toby in Sweeney Todd in Concert. Sorry about that nasty cut...

Thank you for all the reviews – please, if you like this, keep them coming! Reviews are like gold treasure to a pirate (or a customer to a certain shop).

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><p><em><strong>Mr. Todd's Wild Ride<strong>_

"Outside!" Sweeney raced down the corridor and threw the doorbolt with his now-free right hand, then hurled the door open so hard that it clanged against the stone.

Where was the coach? Right where it ought to be—Toby had not failed them. Dew's girl was slipping from Sweeney's shoulder, so he stopped to shift his grip. While he was doing that his gaze was caught by a bald man who was watching them from an alleyway. Whoever he was, he was wearing a dark green army jacket and there was a long thin bundle in his arms. Who could he be, and what was he looking for? Was this one of Fogg's men? One of Turpin's men? Would they have to fight him too?

As Sweeney prepared himself once again for combat, the man turned and melted into the darkness. The stranger had to be both cunning and cautious—it had been mere happenstance that Sweeney had seen him at all. Was this something that ought to concern him?

Dew vaulted into the coachman's seat beside Toby and yelled, "Let's go!" Anthony opened a door and helped Johanna to get inside, but Sweeney didn't bother with any such niceties. He threw open the other door, shoved Meg inside, and barreled in himself.

He'd barely gotten the door closed before the coach-and-pair galloped off at breakneck speed. Dew was yelling "Hiyah! Hiyah!" at the top of his lungs. It was going to be a bumpy ride—first Johanna was bounced off the seat onto the floor and then Sweeney fell on top of Meg, knocking the breath out of them both. As he peeled himself off her drenched straitjacket and crawled back to the jouncing seat, he saw that Anthony was holding the inside rail and riding out the bumps and sways as if it was a storm. He'd pulled Johanna up beside him and was holding her close and safe.

Sweeney finally dragged himself over to the back window to see three riders galloping after them. Three riders? For an asylum escape? Did Fogg think he was running a madhouse or the Tower of London? Dew was driving like a lunatic. His first turn threw them to the left, the next threw them to the right. Then he sped into a straightaway and jounced them over every pothole in the road. After one particularly bad bump Meg rolled over the floor and sprawled onto Sweeney's feet. He clamped his legs around her slight body and held her steady.

"Hey, stop kicking!" she yelled.

"I'm not kicking, I'm trying to keep you from rolling!" Sweeney poked his head out the window and saw that the horsemen were still coming at them. "Dew! They're still after us!"

"I know! We'll have to leave the main roads! Hang on!" The London Hospital passed by in a flash and the coach took a horrifying turn on two wheels. Considering what their coachman was doing, Sweeney was just as happy he could only look back—it would be even more terrifying to see what they were driving into.

And then... Dew laughed.

What did Dew think he was doing, anyway? Their next bad jounce could easily crack a wheel, and then the escape would be over. But—that hadn't happened yet.

When Sweeney Todd laughed, it meant that he'd run into something even worse than himself.

When Tony Dew laughed, it meant that he'd just accomplished the impossible.

Wedged between Sweeney's legs, Meg began to giggle. She'd witnessed things no innocent girl should ever have to see, she'd been tortured that very day in a madhouse, she was fleeing for her life—but she was still laughing jubilantly along with her father.

From Anthony's and Johanna's wide-eyed expressions, Sweeney assumed that they were wondering whether Dew had gone mad. But what if he had? As Sweeney Todd well knew, it was perfectly possible to remake the world into your own mad image.

To escape from a penal colony in Australia was nothing but a fairytale. He'd tried and failed and been flogged and tried again—and when at last he'd succeeded, there had been no joy in it.

But look what he and Tony Dew had done! They'd invaded a madhouse to rescue two damsels in distress and they'd brought out his daughter alive and well. He'd tossed a girl he'd never met over one shoulder and stolen her from the hands of a monster—without even asking for an introduction. The enemy had outnumbered them three to one and they'd mowed them all down.

Another jolt and a crunch. The coach swayed sickeningly—but kept right on going.

Without his conscious volition, a dark chuckle emerged from deep in Sweeney's chest.

Anthony had wrapped one arm around the inside rail and the other around Sweeney's daughter. Glancing over at Sweeney, he asked nervously, "Are you all right?"

Oh, Anthony—you refuse to see the bad in me but you don't believe I can laugh?

The asylum rescue was mad, the carriage chase was mad, the whole world was mad—and he and Dew were unstoppable.

Sweeney Todd threw back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed.


	13. The Bloody Stranger with a Razor

_**Author's Note:**_

Cool historical note: On a tour of Christchurch College the guide pointed out a bit of grafitti from the 1820's: No Peel. Apparently the newfangled police force wasn't very popular with folks.

Please review - reviews are my only reward.

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><p><em><strong>The Bloody Stranger With a Razor<strong>_

As they drove into the middle of Whitechapel the buildings got closer together and there were more pedestrians in the streets. Skillfully weaving the coach around people, animals, and other vehicles, Dew yelled at them to get out of the way. Passersby were frantically diving back onto the pavement, dodging into alleys or ducking into shops.

Toby hadn't fallen off the coachman's seat after all, because he was shouting too. It was a moment before Sweeney could make out his higher-pitched yells: "Peelers! Watch out, the Peelers are coming!"

Did Toby want to start a riot? Apparently so—Sweeney could hear loud yells of "Peelers! We don't want no Peelers! Get them out of here!" A crowd of angry men grabbed poles, clubs, anything else they could put their hands on, and swarmed into the street. He couldn't see what they were doing through the carriage window, but it definitely sounded like the mob was attacking the riders.

Dew turned the coach into a sidestreet and reined in the exhausted horses next to an abandoned factory, then climbed down from the coachman's seat and opened one of the coach doors. He poked his head in and asked, "Is everyone all right?"

Anthony pulled Johanna away from Dew and gave him a boggled look. Dew simply shrugged. "My dear man, I knew what I was doing."

Sweeney Todd threw open the other door and tumbled out onto the cobblestone street. He was still trying to catch his breath when Dew stepped over him to pull his daughter off the floor of the coach. "Are you all right, Meg?"

His ironic smile vanished when Meg burrowed her head into his coat and started to sob. "It was so awful, Papa! So awful! I never dreamed an adventure could be this awful!"

Dew clutched his daughter to his chest and let her bawl on his shoulder. "Neither did I, rosebud. Neither did I. I should never have let you stay in Turpin's house (here he was interrupted by an outraged whoop) but you were as brave as a lion. Turpin will pay dearly for what he did to you."

Get in line, Sweeney thought blackly.

Still unsteady on his feet, Toby clambered down from the coachman's seat. "Mad, you're all mad!" he yelled at Sweeney, his eyes wide with terror. "I thought you were mad, but the old gent's worse!" He pointed an accusing finger at Dew before pelting down the street.

Dew reluctantly released Meg from his grasp. "Let the boy go. He's done all that we asked him to do."

"So where did you bring us, Dew?" Sweeney hadn't come to this area very often, and it must have changed a great deal since he'd last been here anyway.

"We're around Mitre Square, not far from Petticoat Lane." Dew was attempting to unfasten the straps on the straitjacket that imprisoned his daughter. "Ah, it's sticking. Todd, your razor, please."

Sweeney started to hand the razor to Dew, but when he saw Dew's hands trembling he grabbed the girl and slashed through the straps himself. The long sleeves fell away and Meg squirmed out of the sopping garment. Dew pulled it off, muttering, "A straitjacket. Why didn't I ever think of that?"

Dew shrugged out of his blue coat and put it onto his daughter. The coat came down below her knees so it would conceal her ruined blouse and petticoat at least somewhat.

But Meg Dew wasn't Sweeney Todd's responsibility. Only a few steps away, Johanna was still trussed up with leather straps. Sweeney took a deep breath and spoke the first words that he'd uttered to his daughter since she was a babe. "You're next."

Wordlessly Johanna held out her arms and let Sweeney snip the leather straps that confined them from shoulder to elbow. He kept his head down to better concentrate on the work, but he could still see his little girl's lips quiver and her eyes shift from the sight of Dew comforting his daughter—to Sweeney's razor.

As the last strap fell Johanna fixed her beautiful brown eyes on Sweeney's face and asked in a voice thick with tears, "Who are you—really?"

Time froze. Why was Johanna asking him this? Sweeney didn't dare tell her the truth. Not when he was weltering in blood in front of her eyes with his murder weapon in his hand. He'd hoped there would be a more propitious moment later on when he could explain things to her slowly and carefully. This certainly wasn't it. She would run away screaming!

"Sweeney Todd." He rammed his razor back into its holster and lied tonelessly, "My name is Sweeney Todd."

Anthony opened his mouth to say something, but Sweeney shook his head. Dew pursed his lips skeptically.

The tears that he'd heard in Johanna's voice welled up in her eyes. "I want my—I want—" To Sweeney's total and horrified astonishment, she flung her arms around his neck and clung to him as if she was drowning. Him. Sweeney Todd. The bloody stranger with a razor.

Without a moment's hesitation, Johanna shoved her nose into his shirtfront and started to sob—not soft decorous ladylike sobs but the loud, agonized 'huh-huh-huhs' of a convict who'd just been lashed. He had no idea what to say to her, so he held out his arms and let her cry. She'd quit when her feelings wound down, they all did.

Johanna started to whisper terrible intimate things into his shirtfront—into his heart. Her own heart was beating like the wings of a bird shut up in a cage.

"I was so scared. They took Meg away and I was all alone. With the mad girls. I thought that I would go mad too. Mr. Neil tried to put his hand down my bodice but I bit him."

Was Mr. Neil the man in the pince-nez whose throat he'd sliced? What a piece of bloody good luck, Sweeney thought blackly. Closing his arms around Johanna's back, he lightly caressed her shoulderblades with his thumbs.

"I thought that it was all my fault. I thought I'd never get out. I was afraid nobody would come to free me and I'd have to stay there forever."

Even Sweeney Todd could speak to pain like this. Especially Sweeney Todd. "I know, Johanna, I know. Those people do not deserve to live. But you're free from that place now and you will never go back. I—I—we will protect you."

Johanna's first response was a strangled gasp. Then she leapt back as if the man she was clinging to had bitten her. Her eyes were huge, her lower lip was quivering, and her left cheek had been smeared with somebody's else's half-dried blood. The bright color rose in her pale cheeks as she said almost inaudibly, "Thank you for listening to me."

Sweeney knew that he was missing something important, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out exactly what it was. "You're welcome."

An awkward silence fell upon the group until Dew cleared his throat and drew everyone's relieved attention.

"I'm afraid we may have a bit of a problem here. Whoever's left at Fogg's Asylum will send word to Judge Turpin about what we've just done. I'm not sure how much he knows about me, but Beadle Bamford has already sent men to attack me once. Now the Judge will be told that young Anthony Hope has stolen away his ward with the help of a barber named Sweeney Todd and a wigmaker who looks a great deal like me."

'Another typical day,' his shrug seemed to say. "Turpin may decide to inform Knight's Ghosts about all this—but even if he doesn't, he'll become extremely wary. It will be difficult for us to obtain Turpin's evidence regarding Mr. Knight's operations."

"Evidence?" Johanna echoed. "Oh! You mean the letters that Meg found!"

She turned her back on the rest of them and fumbled with the front of her dress. After a moment, she turned around with a packet of folded papers in one hand. "Meg told me to take care of them, and I did. I've kept them hidden all the time I was in the asylum."

As soon as he got a look at what she handed to him, Dew whistled sharply. "My dear, you are a treasure!"

Meg hugged her exuberantly and crowed, "We did it, Jo! We did it! We won!"

Dew quickly thumbed through the letters. "Some of these give specifics on Knight's legal machinations and others describe the bribes he paid to Turpin. The Judge practically admits his criminal wrongdoing in so many words."

As she picked up on what Dew was saying, Johanna's eyes hardened. "If _He_—if Turpin is a criminal then he should be transported. I want him to be transported. I want to see him sent off in a convict ship to do hard labor and be flogged. The way he sent off my father."

Hearing Johanna say the words 'my father' almost made Sweeney Todd feel that he really was one. But he would rather not have heard her say the others. Revenge was a poisoned cup; he wouldn't have chosen to share it with his little angel.

Dew looked uncomfortable. "I don't like Judge Turpin any better than you do, Johanna. But the fact is, he's met Knight's people face-to-face and he can connect those faces to names. We can use his knowledge to dig the top men in Knight's operation out of their burrows. I want to capture him and find out what he knows."

Johanna scowled, but said nothing. Meg, on the other hand, jumped right in. "Well, if we're going to capture him, we ought to do it now before he bolts."

"'We', Meg?" Tony Dew looked about ready to fit his daughter with a new straitjacket.

"You need us, Papa. Anthony has only seen the outside of Turpin's house. Johanna and I are familiar with the inside."

Dew heaved a deep sigh and acquiesced. "I hate to admit it, but I'm afraid you're right. This is a critical mission—I must use every resource that I have. But—" he raised a cautioning finger, "You will stay behind me and you will not attack anyone. Is that perfectly clear, Marguerite Dewhurst?"

His stern gaze did not waver until Meg nodded obediently. "Yes, Papa."

Sweeney had known better liars than Meg, but she was Dew's problem. He had a daughter of his own to worry about.

Suddenly Meg's gaze dropped to her father's arm. "Papa, what happened to you?"

Dew glanced down at the spreading red stain. "A trifle, my dear. It's already been attended to." He quickly placed his hand into his waistcoat pocket to hide the trembling. "We have more important things to worry about."

After Sweeney rewrapped his arm, Dew carefully climbed to the driver's seat and took up the reins. The rest of them climbed into the coach. As he stepped inside, Anthony said wryly to Sweeney, "I hope this time he'll drive more carefully."

Sweeney's lips curled into something that was almost a smile when Meg protested, "My father is always careful!"


	14. City on Fire

_**Author's Note**_

From DorisTheYounger: Regarding Sweeney and Johanna, I can only borrow a quote from the estimable Jack Sparrow: If you were waiting for the opportune moment, that was it.

Thanks for the reviews, and welcome back my old readers (and welcome to new ones!)

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><p><em><strong>City on Fire<strong>_

By the time they arrived in Leicester Square, a huge yellow summer moon was rising up through the sooty clouds. It was twilight. The hour was too late for casual strolling and too early for serious dissipation, so the street was deserted. Through the back window of the carriage, Sweeney Todd caught glimpses of tall grey buildings flanked with gargoyle-topped pillars.

Dew turned the coach neatly around a corner and halted beneath the overhanging branches of a group of trees. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, Anthony jumped out and gallantly extended his arm to hand down Johanna. Ridiculous boy, Sweeney thought.

But when he took the long step to the street, Sweeney had to concede that it would be a reach for a woman. So he scooped Dew's daughter into his arms and swung her onto the kerb. The girl was no daffodil to carry, but at least she'd dried off.

When he set her down, Meg squeaked, "My slipper!" and bent to scrabble in the dirty street. Dew had bought slippers for both girls from the first Whitechapel street vendor he'd encountered, and apparently they didn't fit very well.

Finally locating her missing footgear, Meg grabbed Sweeney's shoulder and hopped on one foot to put it on. As she slid her bare foot into the leather slipper, Sweeney noticed a hooked coachman's staff under her arm. She must have fished it out from behind the seat during the ride. As he'd expected, the girl wasn't taking her father's order about not attacking people very seriously.

She wasn't the only one.

Anthony and Johanna were standing in the street looking up at the house where she'd spent her childhood. The stone face of Turpin's home was as cold and stern and forbidding as the face of Turpin himself. Sweeney could not see one scrap of greenery anywhere around the building. The ugly wrought iron grating that flanked the front courtyard nicely completed the house's prison-like atmosphere.

"There's the window where I first spotted you," Anthony said—quite unnecessarily—to Johanna. "I heard you singing and I had to stop to look."

Johanna nodded sadly. "Yes, that's the room where Turpin shut me up. I promised myself that if I ever got out that I would never come back again. But here I am."

"We're here on a mission, Johanna—we're not here to stay. Don't forget that!" Meg had joined her father, who was lurking inconspicuously in the shadow of the trees. "I don't see many lights inside—do you think the Judge is home tonight?"

Johanna peered carefully into the windows. "The front hall is lit and so is the parlor. I'd say yes. I suppose he could be in his study."

"Looking at his pictures, perhaps?" Meg said acidly. Sweeney was rather mystified to notice how distressed Anthony became after he heard that remark.

"But never mind that," Meg went on, a little embarrassed herself. "We don't want Turpin to escape us, so you need to know about the exits. Besides the main door, the only other way out is the servants' entrance. It's at the end of the alley on the left side of the house. Most of the windows are barred, and if they aren't barred, they're too high up to climb through. And there are no secret passages."

"I'm sure that you checked," Dew remarked with amusement.

"You needn't worry about the neighbors," Johanna told them all. "No matter what happens, nobody on this street will interfere. The house with no lights to the right of Turpin's house belonged to the Carious—but she died and he went back to Canada. The Thornhills on the left are always at parties—I never see them."

Meg frowned as if she'd heard something and pointed down the street. "Look, we're not alone! Somebody's there!"

Anthony looked in the direction she was pointing. "It's the beggar woman who tried to help me before. She shouldn't be here—I don't want her to be hurt."

Dew shrugged. "She shouldn't be in any danger. After spending this long on the streets, she'll know when to run. We have a mission to complete. This time, let's try the simple approach. We'll just walk up to the front door and knock."

"Be careful with the butler," Johanna warned him. "He's a champion bare-knuckle boxer and Turpin told me that he's killed people in the ring."

Sweeney Todd squeezed the razor in his hand. "I doubt the butler will be a problem."

Dew heaved an exasperated sigh. "Let me make one thing clear. No matter what Turpin has done, he is still a Judge of the City of London. If any blood is spilt tonight, my friends cannot shield us from legal retribution." With an edge to his voice, he added, "I'm talking to you, Todd. I will not allow you to involve these girls in a murder."

Sweeney sneered, but said nothing. Did Dew think he was dealing with an imbecile? The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had thumbed their noses at the Committee of Public Safety at the very height of the Terror. Was he to believe that Dew couldn't handle a few Peelers?

Dew surveyed the front of the house one more time and grasped his swordcane. Then, with Meg right behind him, he strode across the street. The rest of his band quickly followed.

Dew's foot had barely hit the pavement when the great front door opened and a man in evening dress stepped outside. It was Judge Turpin. The door closed behind him and he walked toward them to the pavement. He was fussing with his cuffs and humming a tune. "Pretty women, fascinating... pretty women, dancing. Pretty women...".

When he noticed that an ominous group of strangers was blocking his way and staring at him, Judge Turpin first stared back at them, then cautiously turned to re-enter his house. Before he could set foot on the stairs, Meg sprinted past her father and bounded onto Turpin's porch. She stood in front of his door and brandished her staff in front of her to bar his way. "No escape for you, Turpin!"

Sweeney Todd unfolded his razor. Turpin was almost close enough to touch. The evil man who had ruined Benjamin Barker's beautiful wife and stolen his daughter had escaped retribution a few weeks ago, but now he was trapped.

A shaft of light from the window struck Meg's face and Turpin frowned in belated recognition. "You're the maid that I sent off with Johanna. What are you doing here?"

"She's helping me." Dew's voice was steely and dangerous as he unsheathed the blade of his swordcane and stepped forward. "My name is Anthony Dewhurst. I've come to bring you to justice—the justice that is a stranger to your courtroom. You have used your authority to imprison innocent men and to free guilty men, but you will do this no more."

"Criminals. You're all criminals. And you'll hang," Turpin muttered.

"We know that you're working for Knight's Ghosts. We have proof that you took Knight's bribes."

Turpin's left eyelid twitched. "I don't know what you're talking about. Get out of my way." Barred from the safety of own household, he tried to sidle around Dew.

Dew's sword stopped Turpin's progress. "For what you have done to Johanna and to Meg, you deserve to be horsewhipped. But I will stay my hand and let the law have you if you tell me what you know about Mr. Knight."

Turpin stared incredulously at the blade aimed at his heart. "What I do with my ward is no business of yours!"

Johanna stepped out from behind Anthony so the Judge could see her face. "What you will do with me is nothing—you are a part of my life no more."

"How did you—how can you be here? How did you get out?" Turpin's own face fell in shock. When he finally recognized Anthony, his mouth twisted in anger. "The sailor! You'd persist in running away with him? I gave you everything, ungrateful child—no, not a child, not a lady, a slut!"

A red haze of fury was swamping Sweeney Todd's brain with blood. He could think of nothing but revenge. "You will not touch my daughter ever again!"

"Daughter?" Turpin gazed at Sweeney's contorted face in puzzlement. "Who are you? You can't be Benjamin Barker."

"The years have changed me, no doubt. And I suppose the face of a barber, a prisoner in the dock, is not particularly memorable." As Sweeney Todd stepped forward with his razor, Turpin backed fearfully away.

Dew was yelling something at him, but for once Sweeney didn't listen. "My wife, my daughter, my life—do not stop me, Dew!"

He shoved Dew's sword to one side and swung his arm back to strike.

CRACK!


	15. Darkest Knight

_**Author's Note**_

I'll be linking to some pictures I made for this story—Sweeney, Anthony, Johanna, even some images of Tony Dew and Meg. Would you like to see what Meg and Tony Dew look like? I've grown rather fond of the Dews...

Jill, I think you'll be surprised at the cliffhanger resolution...

Thanks for the reviews, and welcome back my old readers (and welcome to new ones!)

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><p><em><strong>Darkest Knight<strong>_

A gunshot sounded very different somehow in the open air. As Sweeney Todd watched in disbelief, Judge Turpin spun halfway around, then collapsed to his knees. He touched the bloody ruin of his chest and gazed uncomprehendingly at the blood smearing his fingers.

"Jo-Johanna?" he said hollowly, then slumped to the cobblestones.

No! It couldn't be! Sweeney grabbed Turpin's hair and pulled up his head, but the light had already passed from his enemy's eyes. After all these years, how could his dreams of revenge have been thwarted out of thin air?

Dew was scanning the area for the source of the shot. He'd just shouted, "Meg! Stay where you—" when there was a second CRACK! Dew jerked and staggered, but Sweeney caught him before he could fall.

"Run, Mr. Todd!" As Anthony hastily pulled Johanna behind the coach, Sweeney lumbered after him, half-carrying the wounded Dew.

This couldn't be happening! This was Leicester Square, not the wilds of Australia. Sweeney shoved Dew behind the dubious shield of the coach wheel and desperately looked around—just as Dew had done—to find out where the shots were coming from.

Dew was clinging with both hands to the coach wheel and staring up at the rooftops. Blood was seeping through his waistcoat. When Johanna crawled over and touched his side to examine the wound, he pressed his lips together and hissed with pain. "It must be one of Knight's sharpshooters. He's up on one of the roofs—we're sitting ducks down here on the ground."

"Papa! I see him!" Meg shouted from Turpin's porch. Sweeney peered through the spokes of the coach wheel—it looked like she was hiding behind a pillar. "He's on the roof of the empty house—the southwest corner!"

"Meg! Don't move! Be careful!" Dew's face was growing pale and his voice was fading. He pulled at Sweeney's coatsleeve and said hoarsely, "We're pinned down here—but it's only one man. You've got to go up there and get him. I—I don't think I can stand."

"Are you mad?" Sweeney snarled. "That's impossible! I'm no soldier."

Dew's eyes seemed very old and tired. "Then take your daughter and run."

Sweeney Todd's head jerked up as if he'd been backhanded.

"I think I can do it," Anthony said suddenly. "I've been watching this row of houses for days and I know how to get up on the roof. But Mr. Todd will have to distract him somehow. Please, Mr. Todd, we're all in danger."

Dew tugged his revolver out of a coat pocket and offered it to Sweeney. His arm was trembling noticeably but his eyes were steady.

The Plan—think of the Plan. This time it would have to be Dew's plan because the fight was far beyond Sweeney's weight class. He took the gun from Dew's hand and said numbly to Anthony, "Get ready to run."

As Anthony squatted down and prepared to sprint, Dew told Sweeney, "You have five shots before reloading."

He'd never handled a revolver in his life, but it was just a machine—just another murder machine. Sweeney slid as far from Dew and Johanna as he could manage without leaving cover, raised the revolver high in the air, and fired a shot in the direction of the roof of the empty house.

CRACK!

Chips of cobblestone flew into the air a few feet from where Sweeney was crouching. Immediately after the shot, Anthony jumped up and ran toward the archway between the empty house and Turpin's house. By the time the sharpshooter could reload, he would be in the alley and shielded by the angle of the wall.

And Sweeney ran too. One—two—three—four. He dived into the dark alley five seconds after Anthony, who was already swarming up the side of the house as if it were the rigging of the Bountiful. But Sweeney had a different destination in mind. He'd noticed a large chimney in the northwest corner of the empty house, so he ran down the alley and found—as he'd expected—a chimney sweep's ladder bolted to the wall. Holstering his razor and stuffing the revolver under his belt, he started up the metal rungs to the roof, thirty feet above the ground.

The angle of the wall shielded him from the moonlight as well as from gunshots, so he'd be climbing blind until he hit the top. After that he'd have to double back over the roof to get to the sharpshooter. Well, the roof was flat, anyway. Was there any chance he could get there in time to help Anthony? The boy was a much better climber than he was, but Sweeney had the advantage of a ladder.

CRACK!

Another shot—and the sound of a woman's scream. His heart stopped—Johanna! Should he turn back? What did they need to do now? Had his daughter just been shot?

Turning back never worked. Once the shooter was dead, Dew was perfectly capable of cozening even the neighbors into helping him. And if Johanna was already dead, Sweeney would avenge her in blood.

Just as Sweeney pulled himself up to the rooftop he heard Anthony trying to interrogate a cold-blooded killer. Typical of him.

"Why are you doing this? Why do you want to kill people that you don't even know?"

Now that he'd reached the rooftop, the moonlight was bright enough to see what was happening there. Anthony had clambered onto the roof a little distance from the archway—about thirty feet from Sweeney's position. He stood with his back to Sweeney and was arguing with the sharpshooter, who was crouched perhaps twenty feet further away.

It was hard to make out details at that distance, but the combination of the sharpshooter's shiny head and the long thin bundle cradled in his lap clicked a memory into place for Sweeney. It was the watcher from the asylum.

The man who'd been watching them earlier answered in a voice both hard and dispassionate. It did, however, have a trace of an Irish accent that reminded Sweeney disconcertingly of Dew. "I'm a soldier—killing is my business. But I'll tell you this for nothin', boyo—I'm used to taking English coin to kill Frenchmen, but I love taking English coin to kill Englishmen. Lyin' sods, the lot of you. You all deserve to die."

As the sharpshooter stood up, Sweeney realized why he'd taken the time to answer Anthony—he'd been affixing a bayonet to his rifle. His ferocious charge came close to putting the bayonet point through Anthony's belly, but Anthony was limber and dodged.

Pulling the revolver out of his belt, Sweeney sprinted toward them over the roof tiles. He was no sharpshooter, but at point-blank range he didn't think he could miss. Before he got close enough, Anthony grabbed at the rifle barrel and tried to pull it away. As the two men struggled, the sharpshooter nearly kicked Anthony off his feet.

Reaching can't-miss range, Sweeney fired—and missed. The sharpshooter chose that moment to swing the rifle with all his strength. He hit Anthony in the chest full-force and the power of the attack threw the boy off-balance. He stepped back a few paces, tripped—then toppled over the corner of the roof with a yell.

Anthony! No!

Red rage thrummed through Sweeney Todd's veins and sinews. To hell with the Plan—to hell with the gun—to hell with the bayonet! He was no Pimpernel—he was Sweeney Todd! He let Dew's revolver fall where it would and fisted his razor in a white-knuckled grip. If he could get in one good slice, nothing else would matter.

Screaming at the top of his lungs like a grubby aborigine, Sweeney charged fearlessly at the man with the bayonet. "_Cooeewah! Cooeewah! Wahh! Wooh!_"*

He felt a burning sting in his side as he threw himself toward the sharpshooter. Maybe his savage scream had rattled the man and maybe it hadn't, but he hadn't been quick enough to run his bayonet through Sweeney's chest. A bayonet wasn't so handy at grappling range, so his opponent snapped off a kick at Sweeney's kneecap.

I expected that, you bleeder, Sweeney thought. Turning to one side like a duelist, he lifted his razor high and lunged for his enemy's throat. The first slice removed three of the man's fingers but the second went sweetly home. Right until the end, the hatred in the sharpshooter's eyes never ceased.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

Quivering with rage and exertion, Sweeney looked around with vacant eyes at a world that was meaningless to him. The vermin that lay bleeding at his feet was dead. Anthony was dead. Turpin was dead. Johanna was probably dead. Dew was surely dying.

He'd been right—nothing else would matter.

What? Scrabbling?

Something was moving at the edge of the rooftop! Sweeney ran to the corner of the roof and saw that Anthony was clinging to a knobbed cornice.

"Hang on! I'll get you!" Dropping the razor, Sweeney braced one arm against the ledge and reached down. "Grab my hand—I'll pull you up."

As Anthony reached up to him Sweeney realized that his hand was dripping with blood. This wasn't good enough—Anthony needed more than a hand to cling to. He locked his knees against the ledge, bent over, and held out both arms as far as they would go. "Grab on—I won't let you fall."

When Anthony first clamped his hands onto Sweeney's arms, Sweeney feared for an instant that they'd both go over the edge. But then Anthony's feet finally settled on the foothold he'd been desperately struggling to find and he used Sweeney's body as leverage to pull himself up and over the ledge. "You saved me, Mr. Todd."

The irony was unmistakable, but Sweeney didn't comment on it. "We need to get back down there. I heard a scream."

A woman's scream—and the only woman in the sharpshooter's line of fire was Johanna. Anthony paled and scrambled down pell-mell the same way he'd come.

But that was no route for a barber. Sweeney Todd snatched up and holstered his razor, then ran back to the metal ladder.

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><p>* According to my internet source this aborigine war cry means: Come on! Come on! To death!<p> 


	16. And She Was Beautiful

_**Author's Note**_

Doyle (the gunman) was a nod to John Doyle's production of Sweeney Todd, as played by Michael Ceveris– and yes, in the revival Sweeney was bald.

Sorry this is so short, but it packs a punch! Thanks for the reviews, and welcome to old and new readers!

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><p><em><strong>And She Was Beautiful<strong>_

When he emerged from the alley Sweeney pulled out his razor again and scanned the streets. No random late night pedestrians, nobody carrying a long thin bundle in his arms. Householders were peering at them from behind their window blinds but nobody was coming out to help them. Anthony was standing on the pavement looking confused—probably a good sign, all in all. When he rounded the coach Sweeney saw—

"Johanna!"

She wasn't dead or even wounded. Johanna was crouching over a sprawled, motionless form that he wasn't able to recognize in the moonlight. Could it be Meg? No. Tony Dew was slumped against the coach wheel and he was pressing a white cloth to the wound in his side. If that had been his daughter, Dew would have gone to her if he'd had to crawl.

A few steps more, and Sweeney saw that the body on the ground was the old beggar woman. She must not have known when to run after all. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone with red hair running toward the coach—it was Meg Dew going to her father.

"The poor thing tried to help me," Johanna said softly. "I was trying to help Mr. Dew, and I stood up. She pushed me back behind the coach and then... and then she was shot."

He knew he ought to say something, but all that he could think of was, "I'm glad it wasn't you."

The beggar woman was wearing the same filthy clothes that she always wore, but her ragged skirt was now darkening with blood. Her face was pale—too pale. He'd seen death often enough—the woman was not long for this world.

As she turned her head toward Sweeney, her dirty hair fell from her face and the moonlight illuminated her raddled features. "Benjamin... I know you. Benjamin."

Clink! Sweeney's razor fell to the cobblestones. Her face and her voice were terrifyingly familiar. Her eyes—it was impossible. He fell to his knees and whimpered. "No... It can't be..."

"I know you. Please... my husband."

"Lucy?" Sweeney whispered. He touched her face and his fingers knew the curve of her cheek. This couldn't be happening—not now, not now. "Lucy, I thought you were dead."

There was something in Sweeney's eyes, he couldn't see her clearly. He cradled his dying wife's body in his arms and felt his heart pulling into pieces. "Lucy, no, I've come home again, I've found you. Don't leave me, please, no..."

She was sobbing in pain or in sorrow, and there was so much blood, so much blood.

"Look, Lucy, Johanna is here, she's safe. Turpin's dead." He reached out for Johanna's hand and pulled her close so that Lucy could see her. Johanna's eyes were wide and unbelieving, but she leaned over and gently kissed her mother's forehead. "She's free, I'm free. Please, Lucy...stay."

Lucy's cloudy eyes focused on her daughter's face and she clutched at Johanna's arm. In a cracked and wavering voice, she started to sing the children's lullaby that Sweeney still remembered from the dear dead past. "Why should you weep then, my jo, my jing..."

He heard a rustle as Lucy reached for him. "My only love, I'm so sorry, so sorry..."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he whispered.

Lucy's breath left her and her hand fell from his face. There was a stone in Sweeney's throat, he couldn't speak. He could only hold his Lucy tight as salty tears washed the blood from his face.

Tears? How strange—Sweeney Todd couldn't cry. He had never been able to cry; his tears had all dried up. He raised his eyes to the sky and looked out into an endless blackness that no moonlight could ever brighten.

How could he have been so blind? His Lucy—his beautiful Lucy—she'd been here all the time. She hadn't died after taking poison. He could have found her if he'd only bothered to look. If he'd only... if he hadn't been so blind.

Someone touched his shoulder and he heard Johanna's soft voice. "Father?"

Oh, poor Johanna, he'd failed her too, he'd let her mother die. He turned toward his daughter but he couldn't see her face, everything was so blurry. He could see Lucy clearly, though, now that it was too late. She was so beautiful. Just like he'd said to Anthony, there was a barber and his wife, and she was beautiful...

Johanna put her arms around his neck and pressed her soft cheek to his. For the first time in a very, very long while, Sweeney Todd felt warm.

"I'm here, Father, I'm here."

It had never occurred to him, somehow, that his daughter might love him back.


	17. Even You, Even I

_**Author's Note**_

Well, this is the end of the story. Thanks to my faithful readers (and reviewers!) – I hope you enjoyed it.

You may be wondering what happens next to Sweeney Todd. So do my collaborator (DorisTheYounger) and I! So we've started a sequel. The sequel will be more complex and longer, so we'll need to finish the first draft to make sure all the pieces are in place before we can start posting. That will take a while, so you might put me on an author alert. And, of course, any reviews, comments, suggestions or just encouragement will keep us going on this.

In the meantime, I've posted pictures of the characters in a PDF (warning, 2mb in size) here: http:/ / www. severalunlimited. com /barbarella/ (Close up the spaces sinceFFN scrubs out URLs.)

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><p><em><strong>Even You, Even I<strong>_

The bells of St. Dunstan's were chiming noon as Sweeney Todd unlocked the door to his barber-shop. He stepped inside and looked around, almost surprised to see that nothing had really changed. The scraps of Dew's waistcoat were still wadded on the floor and one of Mrs. Lovett's teacups was still on the table. The 'special' barber chair that had been his pride and joy sat neglected in the middle of the room.

He hurried to the bureau and opened the top drawer. The one possession that he did not want to lose was still safe. He lifted his precious daguerreotype and gazed at the beloved face of his wife. It was all that he had left of Lucy—no, that wasn't true. Her daughter Johanna was waiting for him in the coach. He closed the daguerreotype carefully and put it into the satchel.

The second drawer held his few remaining clothes. Sweeney pulled out his only unruined shirt and set it aside, then packed the rest into his satchel. Daniel's black coat would see him through—although it did have its stiff spots—but he would much rather discard the shirt he was wearing. That bayonet slash had finished it.

He was knotting Dew's blue cravat over his last clean shirt when he heard footsteps at his door. She didn't knock, of course—she never did. He looked into the bureau mirror and saw Mrs. Lovett standing just inside his doorway. Her dark-rimmed eyes were red and puffy. "Mr. T., I was worried about you. Are you all right? What happened?"

Sweeney Todd turned away from the mirror and smiled. It was not a particularly pleasant smile. "I've been running a few errands. Chatting with people. Finding out about things." He gestured with one hand toward his barber chair. "Why don't you sit down and get comfortable? Yes, right there. Sit."

She was his guest, after all. It was only right. And there were a few small matters that he wanted to settle with her. As Mrs. Lovett uneasily seated herself, he locked the door and pulled down the shade.

She sat on the edge of the murder chair and eyed him cautiously. "You look awful, love. And those new clothes of yours—where did you get them?

"We won't go into that. I'd prefer to discuss the things that I found out." All pretense gone, Sweeney Todd pinned her to the chair with cruel fingers. "You lied to me. You said that my Lucy was dead—that was a lie. From the first moment I walked into your shop, you knew that my Lucy lived!"

Mrs. Lovett's mouth opened but for a while she said nothing. Finally she protested, "I was only thinking of you! Your Lucy was a crazy hag picking bones and rotten spuds out of ash cans. Better for you to think she was dead... yes, I lied. I'd be twice the wife she was—I love you!"

She reached out her arms to him, but he stepped back and said, "For better or for worse, that's what I promised her. You lied to me."

Mrs. Lovett frantically shook her head, her untidy red hair falling even further apart. "No, I never lied to you. I said that she took poison—never said that she died. Poor thing—she lived, but it left her weak in the head. She should have been in a hospital, but she wound up in Bedlam instead. What could a thing like that have done for you?"

Sweeney twisted his head to one side and glared at her with cold anger. "Do you want to know what really happened to my Lucy? She died last night. She died saving the life of our daughter Johanna. That's what Lucy did for me."

"I was only thinking of you, love," she whispered.

Sweeney grabbed her throat and forced her back into the chair. It was so easy to pull his silver razor from its holster. "You kept Lucy from me. I should kill you now."

Though she was weeping until her kohl ran, Mrs. Lovett still dared to yell at him. "You'll just kill me then? After all I've done for you! I saved your razors for you, I helped you set up this little shop, I even protected you from that police spy Dew!"

Mrs. Lovett had finally shocked even Sweeney Todd. "What? That was you? You tried to have Dew killed?"

"Of course I did. He was going to hurt you. What chance would you have if the Peelers find out that you're Benjamin Barker?" Mrs. Lovett stopped her angry diatribe as his words finally registered. "You didn't kill him, did you? I didn't find his body in the bakehouse—I thought you must've done him in somewhere else. Oh, what a fool! Quick, love, let me up. I'll hide you, I will."

Mrs. Lovett was such a confusing woman. She loved him—or thought she did—and look what she'd done to him. He'd had such dreams before he met her again—and she'd reshaped them all into warped nightmares. The tip of the silver razor punctured her throat and a ruby drop of blood formed. "We all deserve to die. Even you, even I. Especially you."

He wanted to kill her—he really did. She hardly looked human to him at all. But not seeing what he was looking at—that was a failing of his, wasn't it? Perhaps he should really look at Mrs. Lovett—before it was too late.

He had to admit, the woman had waggled the poisoned apple of murder in front of his nose—but she hadn't made him bite. He'd always known that she was venal and self-serving. He'd always known that she fancied him. He just hadn't known that she would lie to him about Lucy—the more fool, he.

Nellie Lovett was bedraggled and coarse and shopworn. She'd grown up hard and she'd grown up bruised. Nothing in this world meant a thing to her except for herself and the things she wanted for herself.

He pulled the razor from her throat and jerked his hand away. "Sweeney Todd would kill you without a second thought. You should know that—you're two of a kind. But I'm Benjamin Barker."

With a savage grin, he stomped on his chair's foot pedal. Mrs. Lovett shot backwards out of the chair like a cannonball and crashed onto the floor. As she scrambled to her feet, rubbing her bum, he smiled pleasantly and gestured at the non-operative chute. "I'm afraid I never completed it. Goodbye, Mrs. Lovett."

She reached for him one more time, then dropped her arm in resignation. "Where are you going? What's going to happen to me?"

He put his razor back into its holster and grabbed his satchel. "I'm leaving. And as for you—you'll have to live with yourself. I can't imagine anything worse I could do to you."

He unlocked the door and slammed it behind him, finally shutting off the sounds of her angry screams and sobs.

On his way downstairs, he caught sight of Toby standing in the door of the pie shop. As Dew had said, he'd done what they asked him to do. He approached the boy and gestured to the waiting coach. "You don't have to stay with Mrs. Lovett. It might be dangerous for you."

Alarm flickered briefly in Toby's eyes as he imagined one more coach ride with Sweeney Todd. Then he looked up at the barbershop and asked, "Where else could I go? Besides, she needs me."

Probably as good a reason as any, Sweeney thought. He dismissed the boy from his plans and approached the spacious coach. The red-headed driver was wearing clothing that was slightly too fine for a common coachman. Sweeney opened the door and climbed inside, then stowed his satchel under the seat his daughter had saved for him.

Tony Dew was sitting on the seat opposite him, enthroned on a stack of soft pillows. His daughter Meg was diligently stuffing more pillows all around him. This wasn't the only tender care Dew had received—someone who'd known what he was doing had bandaged him up quite expertly.

"We'll go to ground for a while at my country estate—London's too chancy right now for people like us," Dew commented wryly. "And I must confess, I would like to rest for a bit."

Johanna grabbed her father's hand and clutched it tightly. From his seat on the other side of Johanna, Anthony Hope was smiling at him. Then Meg opened the small window on the door and stuck out her head. "Drive carefully, Daniel."

A voice that was slightly too fine for a common coachman answered her from the coachman's seat. "Don't worry, Meg. You know me, _I'm_ the careful one in this family."

Dew raised one eyebrow. "All done here, Mr. Barker?" The man who called himself Sweeney Todd blinked at the sound of his own name.

Benjamin Barker closed his eyes and tightened his grip on his daughter's hand. It was as white and as soft as a dove, but she'd broken every fingernail struggling against her restraints.

"Yes, Mr. Dew, I'm done here."

THE END


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